


But What If There Was A Kiss

by SeedsOfWinter



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 years of kisses, Ancient Rome, Angst, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Kids (Good Omens), Crowley is genderfluid, Drinking, Fluff, Garden of Eden, Golgotha, Historical, Ineffable Spouses, Is it a slow burn if every chapter is how they could have just gotten together sort of right then?, Kisses, M/M, No Betas We Fall Like Crowley, Noah's Ark, Other, Pining, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sad Crowley (Good Omens), Scene: Crucifixion of Jesus 33 AD (Good Omens), Scene: Kingdom of Wessex 537 AD (Good Omens), Wings, they're in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2020-09-06 16:47:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20294749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeedsOfWinter/pseuds/SeedsOfWinter
Summary: What if Aziraphale and Crowley throughout the ages, but a kiss of some kind always happens?(Each chapter is its own fairly tv show canon compliant AU. Can be read individually as The Kiss is reset after each chap, or read them all in order for a stronger narrative. Sometimes there's more than one kiss--not *all* of those get reset!)Currently Available: Eden, Mesopotamia, Golgotha, Rome, WessexUp Next: GlobeAUTHOR UPDATE: Globe's been delayed because of overthinking. So taking a break.I'm going to start separating out chapters since they can stand on their own. I will make the separated chapters into a series. I wish I'd known how to use serieses when I started this one. My apologies if you see them twice!--There was an angel on the wall looking out over the eastern dunes.The demon recognized them, of course. Weren’t too many angels running around the garden.Ominous clouds, blue-gray and darkening and nothing like the wispy white ones everywhere else, gathered in the arc of the sky and curled toward the celestial being.Wonder what that’s all about, the demon thought and slithered up along the white and gold stone to take a closer peek.





	1. The Kiss On The Wall

**Author's Note:**

> For the Fab Fallen. For all the weird shit I write, have some pure, good, sweet Ineffable Spouses as my apology tour.

There was an angel on the wall looking out over the eastern dunes.

The demon recognized them, of course. Weren’t too many angels running around the garden. This was the, ah, yes! The Guardian of the Eastern Gate. The very one who had been derelict in their duties guarding a sacred apple tree when the demon nudged the woman toward her first bright shiny red bite of the fruit, encouraging her toward bettering herself, bettering humanity despite God’s intentions.

Ominous clouds, blue-gray and darkening and nothing like the wispy white ones everywhere else, gathered in the arc of the sky and curled toward the celestial being.

_Wonder what that’s all about_, the demon thought and slithered up along the white and gold stone to take a closer peek.

Then they saw it. Them. Eve and Adam off in the distance, far from the safety of the Garden.

_So,_ the demon thought, unsurprised but disappointed. _It was true. The Almighty really went and had another temper tantrum. Brilliant._

The angel did a double take at the new arrival, looking ever so worried. What did not happen--what the demon had expected--was any smiting.

_How unusual._

Scales transformed and limbs appeared, a flowing robe in black woven with reds and grays to compliment the angel’s golden-trimmed white, shifting the demon into a more suitable appearance for bit of goading. Couldn’t properly goad any enemies as a twelve foot red-bellied snake, much as that would have been amusing to try.

As a final display of menace to display their suitability as a rival, the demon unfurled impressive gray-black wings, flaring and stretching them lavishly to ease the tension deep in their muscles from lack of use.

_Time for more trouble._ “Well, that went down like a lead balloon,” said the demon.

The angel chuckled. A bit nervously. Caught up in some angelic thought, no doubt.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“I said, ‘Well, that went down like a lead balloon.’” The demon didn’t expect the angel to get it. Jokes. Heaven wasn’t big on laughter.

“Yes,” the angel said, emphatic, “yes, it did. Rather.”

_Still no smiting? Getting fun._

The demon prodded with, “Bit of an overreaction, if you ask me. First offence and everything, you know.”

In the distance, a large furry creature approached the two humans at a languid pace on four legs, serpentine tail swishing with hunger.

The demon said, “I can’t see what’s so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil anyway.” And they meant it.

The angel quickly mulled this over. “Well, it must _be_ bad…”

The divine creature deliberately looked at the demon. Oh, those eyes were so damn blue. Did that color even exist anywhere but the sky? Who gave them the right to take that color?

Then the angel closed their eyes, even more deliberately. Looking for a name, they were.

“Crawley,” the demon said casually. They didn’t like the name. Had been saddled with it after, well, After. They’d find something better soon. Must have all sorts of interesting names for things kicking about that no one was using on Earth. Something would stick eventually.

“...Crawley.” The name sounded even more peculiar on an angel’s tongue. But they continued, “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have tempted them into it.”

“Aww,” the demon said, shifting about, “they just said, ‘Get up there and make some trouble.’”

“Well, obviously. You’re a demon.” The angel gave about five different looks, none of them overtly unkind, as they said, “It’s what you _do_.”

Och. The angel didn’t have to say it like that. But, at least the demon was sure that their conversation partner was in fact from Upstairs and not some new breed of godly creation that stood watch on walls or some such.

Not wanting to show the wound the angel’s words had jabbed at, the demon turned back to their initial line of thought: goading.

“Not very subtle of the Almighty, though. Fruit tree in the middle of a garden with a ‘Don’t Touch’ sign.” The demon stammered with genuine confusion, “I mean, why not put on the top of a high mountain? Or on the moon?”

_Had that really not crossed Their all-knowing mind? I’m here for a few days and I’ve figured that one out._

The demon said to the angel, “Makes you wonder what God’s really planning.”

“Best not to speculate.” The tiniest of sneers twitched at the angel’s nose. Deep worry lines creased between their brows.

_Oo, that one hit a nerve! Must know what happens when you start asking questions, hmm..._

“It’s all part of the Great Plan,” the angel added, sounding so much like they were trying to convince themself and not the demon. “It’s not _for_ us to understand.”

The demon gave a noncommittal noise.

Then the angel hit on something in their mind that caused them to… was that a wiggle? It was! Their perfect white wings shivered behind them, the feathers ruffling in the breeze.

The demon watched their movements, transfixed. Was Heaven filled with their most adorable soldiers these days? _However_ would Hell manage...

Clearly feeling clever, the angel imparted to the demon, “_It’s ineffable._”

_Sounds fake,_ thought the demon. “The Great Plan’s ineffable?”

“Exactly,” said the angel, pleased. “It is beyond understanding and incapable of being put into words.”

While the smug bastard spoke the heavenly rhetoric, the demon watched their hands, twisting together like they needed something to do. Like they were made for _something_ more than the nothing that occupied them.

Then the demon’s yellow eyes, still snake-slit and always would be, went wide with realization. “Didn’t you have a flaming sword?”

The mask of superiority slipped from the angel’s holy face. They stuttered. Were they reaching for a lie? Maybe this angel wasn’t all that bad. Or Good, rather.

“_You did_,” the demon insisted, “it was flaming like anything. What happened to it?”

Still the angel stammered, incapable of forming words as they gave several vigorous shakes of their head. The white blonde tufts of hair rippled with the motions.

_This was the one God sent to guard the Eastern Gate?_ And _the tree of knowledge? Must not have wanted the kids on much of a holiday here after all._

Feeling sympathetic, the demon asked, “Lost it already, have you?”

The angel dropped their chin. When they spoke, it was to the ground, lest Heaven hear. “Gaveitaway.”

The demon felt their eyes grow three sizes. “You wot?”

“_I gave it away!_”

The angel appeared physically pained when they said those words, as if stunned they had come out at all, let alone at such volume. For a moment, they even looked afraid, like the demon might tell someone.

_Not me,_ the demon thought. _Too amused for that._

While the demon stared in wide wonder at this amazing new creature--definitely not typical celestial stock, how could they possibly be?--the angel quickly launched into their excuses. Their very reasonable reasons.

“There are vicious animals,” said the angel in earnest. “It’s going to be cold out there. And she’s expecting already! And I said, ‘Here you go. Flaming sword. Don’t thank me. And don’t let the sun go down on you here.’”

_Shit,_ the demon thought as the angel’s words played merry hell with their expectations. _How are you this sickeningly sweet?_

The angel sighed. “I do hope I didn’t do the wrong thing.”

“Ohh,” the demon cooed. “You’re an angel. I don’t think you _can_ do the wrong thing.”

Despite the obvious reasons why that was terribly untrue, the angel lit up at those words like starbursts.

“Oh, oh thank--Oh thank _you_. It’s been bothering me.” Those skybreak eyes were wide and adoring, as though no one had ever spoken so kindly to them in all their existence. Which, given how Upstairs operated, wasn’t necessarily untrue.

In the distance, the furry beast had finally made its presence known to its desired supper. Adam held a hand out to Eve for her to stay back, her and the little bun in the oven.

“Hmm, I’ve been worrying, too,” the demon confessed, feeling oddly safe in the present company with their own potential blunder. “What if I did the right thing with the whole ‘eat the apple’ business?”

Adam brandished the flaming sword at the creature as it roared. _Would he have recognized the danger before?_

“A demon can get into a lot of trouble for doing the Right thing,” they said and watched the angel, vaguely hopeful for a return of kindness.

But when a meaty thud sounded from across the dunes outside Eden, the angel’s face fell. There would be no assurances.

“It’d be funny if we both got it wrong, eh?” The demon said lightly, “If I did the good thing and you did the bad one.”

They shared a chuckle at that until the angel’s brain caught up with the demon’s words. And out came an emphatic and horrified, “No. It wouldn’t be funny at all.”

“Well…” The demon shrugged and let it go.

From the rolling clouds, something like mist but heavier began flecking down onto the stone wall and the clothes of the two beings. A few drops--rain drops, the demon understood them to be--hit squarely against their faces.

The angel glanced upward as lightning struck in the distance, the rain bouncing against those curls as light as the dunes.

_No use both of us getting damp,_ the demon thought as they shuffled toward the angel, starting to pull up one gray-black wing. _Oh!_

The angel was quicker and smoother, having never gone a day in their immortal life without their wings out. Their pristine primaries brushed against mars-red curls as the demon’s own wings grazed the edge of the angel’s robe. The demon shuddered from the holy touch but, curiously, it didn’t burn.

Sheltered from the growing storm beneath the confident stretch of feathers, the demon watched with the celestial being as the first two humans hurried off through the desert. There would be so much hardship ahead of them. So much danger. Would they ever be able to find the peace they’d had in the garden again?

The wind increased as thunder rolled after a double flash of lightning. The demon flinched, snake eyes wide. They caught the angel smiling gently, a crinkle coming to the corner of their eyes.

The rain fell freely upon the Guardian of the Eastern gate, soaking into their hair and robe. They were very near. The demon could have reached out and held their hand for comfort, if the angel’s hands weren’t clasped firmly in front of them.

“Probably shouldn’t stay long,” the demon said, nodding to the state of them.

The smile faltered. “I-uh… I suppose I should check in with my people.”

“Mm. Yeah.”

Neither of them sounded particularly enthused.

The demon still couldn’t understand. They’d been prepared for a smiting, a quick discorporation back Downstairs to pick up another body, get a clap on the back for a job well done, and then whatever came next. Instead, _this angel_ had happened.

This delightful, helpful cherub. Who made absolutely no sense. Weren’t they told, demons and angels, hereditary enemies? Were they not around for the war?

Whatever the demon had done to deserve those moments, they were grateful.

“Right. Better be popping along then. Get out of this downpour,” they said and leaned over to close the distance between them. “Thanks for the chat, Angel.”

The angel sucked in a sharp breath and froze as the demon planted a quick kiss on their cheek. A red flush filled their face. They looked mortified.

Turning, the demon expected it would come along then. The smiting. That was really pushing it.

They’d made it only a few feet, tucking their wings up awkwardly to try to shield themself from the miserable rain, when they heard the angel call out, “Crawley?”

The demon winced. They turned, ready to face whatever was coming. “Yeh?” 

But rather than any celestial weapon pulled from Heaven by a miracle, the angel was only standing there, illuminated by lightning strikes. Getting soaked to the bone.

They swallowed, and faltered, and finally said, “Aziraphale.”

“Nn-uh… What?”

The angel drew up to their full height, fluffing out their wings ever so slightly. “I am the Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate.”

“Oh.” The demon Crawley nodded, blinking away the rain water that begun to stream down into their eyes. “Nice knowing you.”

The angel--Aziraphale, Crawley corrected--beamed before tamping down their blessedly unending joy. “Likewise.”

Crawley turned on the heels of their bare feet and hurried down to the jungle. Away from the rain but equally away from the angel, so they didn’t see the smile on the demon’s face.


	2. The Kiss On The Ark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chap is my first Aziraphale-centered writing, so uh... ::nervous::

But, of course, in the Garden of Eden is not actually how it happened…

“Once upon a time,” the angel said, letting his voice carry down into the hold of the ship ahead of him as he descended the ladder, “there was another rain. The _first_ rain. And, if memory serves, there was _another_ shelter more freely offered.”

He stepped off the last rung with head held high. He was feeling particularly smug, prepared to give Crawley a good talking to. Really! Sneaking aboard Noah’s ark like a... Well, a snake? The two of them had just spoken earlier in the day! What would Heaven think if they heard Aziraphale had let a demon stow away? Surely Crawley knew their selfish act would put both of them in danger.

But Aziraphale hadn’t prepared for the sight that Crawley made: sungold eyes wide with terror, wine-red hair a wild mess, and face ashen. Nor had the angel expected to see those spindly arm thrown wide, black wings flared and earthly visible.

The demon’s face said, _I am petrified_. The wings said, _I will fight you._

Aziraphale craned his neck, trying in the low light of his oil lamp to glimpse what the serpent hid.

“You can’t have them,” they said when they caught him peeking. “_Please_, Aziraphale, work with me here.”

When he saw the first tear-stained face, the angel gasped. Children! A fair dozen and a half, perhaps more.

“You… How did...” Words failed him.

“I am _so very tired_,” Crawley said, “but I will be damned again before I let you tossss them overboard just to appease the Almighty’s--”

“Crawley!”

“--temper tantrum. What?”

“I’m not going to… I’m not going to _kill_ them.”

“You’re not?”

“No!” Aziraphale sighed. The very idea of it! He stepped toward the group but stopped when the demon met him with an answering pace forward. “Are they hurt?”

“Nn… They’re scared.”

“I can help. If you let me?”

The demon hesitated until Aziraphale lifted his eyebrows ever so slightly, demanding a response.

Crawley sighed, bone-weary. “Yeah, all right, fine,” they said, tucking away their black wings from the less perceptive mortal eyes.

The angel smiled politely and scooted behind the demon. He hung his lamp on a peg overhead and observed the group. There were no infants, no toddlers, Aziraphale noted. Only those who could run, hand in hand, and keep low to the ground alongside what had surely been a frantic demon.

How many younger siblings had to be left behind?

“Hello, dears,” he said, crouching down. “Everything is… Well, everything’s _not_ okay, I know but-”

The youngest child sobbed. Behind the angel, Crawley groaned their frustration.

Aziraphale continued, unperturbed. “But if you’d lie down just now, you can sleep. No one will hurt you here. Yes?”

It took some shifting around--a little bit of miracling extra hay and healing cuts and ‘finding’ fresh bread and water--but one by one the children made places to sleep. Siblings and cousins, friends and strangers, they piled against each other. A ragged group clutching arms for comfort.

“There, that’s better. Now sleep,” Aziraphale said, sending a miracle across them for comfortable, pleasant, deep sleep. His breath trembled as he took a long breath and returned to the demon, sitting on the floor far from the ladder but near to their charges. “They’ll sleep the night through.”

Crawley held their head in their hands, curling fingers into tangling hair. “I didn’t think. I just… I just _did_.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, chuckling with forced lightness. “Made a mess of things. Good job. Really put me in my place.”

When Crawley shot him a pained look, Aziraphale blanched.

“Oh. You- You weren’t…” He winced. “No, Crawley, _you_ did the right thing.”

That only seemed to make it worse. What was Aziraphale thinking? An angel telling a demon they did the right thing!

His voice rose as he said, “What I mean is, you did what you felt was _appropriate_. Given the circumstances and your nature-”

“Pl-please. Enough. Aziraphale! Just stop.” Crawley turned away from him, tugging their tattered robe close against their bony body.

Aziraphale could only hold his tongue for so long. He thought of the best words, playing them on his tongue until they felt the correct shape. Nothing assuring, nothing personal.

Gently, he said, “They’ve lost everything. Homes. Family. Faith.”

The demon made a noise of agreement.

Aziraphale continued, “They have no idea why this should happen to them.”

“They didn’t _do_ anything,” Crawley countered, edge still hostile.

“They are innocents,” Aziraphale agreed. “In every sense.”

One yellow eye peered back at the angel. In the low lamplight, the threadbare hope there sliced across Aziraphale’s chest. He worried his hands against each other to keep from squirming out of his skin.

“I, uh, I suppose I should get back to the animals,” he said. “They’ve been so accommodating. It really is a miracle none of them have… attacked each other.”

“Probably know they’re in this together,” Crawley mused, a bit of a frown on their lips as they shifted back toward the angel. “Nowhere else to go, you know, if they make a mess of things?”

Aziraphale flashed a tight smile. “Yes. Well.”

He stood to leave but stopped with one sandal on the ladder’s lowest rung as Crawley whispered, so softly that Aziraphale almost missed it.

“You can stay. If you like?”

The angel didn’t answer. Too many concerns rushed into the front of his brain for something like _answers_. He could help children, heal them, give them pleasant dreams and calm them. He could turn away from how the demon had _clearly_ bested him this round. But…

To _choose_ to keep infernal company?

Crawley added, even more gently, “Gotta keep an eye on me, right? Might do sssomething evil?”

Aziraphale released a slow breath and returned to where Crawley was turning a squat barrel of feed onto its side.

“It’s going to be a long night. Rather dark, I’d say.” He settled down beside the demon, keeping a respectable distance between them. They were still on opposing sides, after all. “So what is it? I am to stay here all night and make sure you don’t switch around the camels and the goats? Start making new breeds of duck?”

Crawley gave a lazy smile. “Keep me entertained and I promise not to go switching goats on you. Tell me a story?”

Aziraphale pondered a moment. He had enjoyed listening to stories over the years. And the humans were very good at telling all sorts of tales. Some of them taught lessons or gave warnings; others kept alive the memory of their short but rushing history. Aziraphale thought Crawley might enjoy one of the stories he had heard of a village trickster, and of clever young people, and the goodness of man.

So he spoke in quiet tones, as not to disturb the children nearby. At his side, the demon fought to keep their eyes open, twisting and turning to get comfortable, half-draped over the round barrel propping them up. Their sharp-angled face slackened against the wooden slats despite their best efforts.

Aziraphale watched as Crawley’s dark eyelashes fell further and further. Finally they fluttered closed entirely, hiding golden eyes from the dim light of the lamp.

“I’m afraid you’re falling asleep, Crawley.”

“Not.”

“Don’t you _want_ to? Sleep, that is?”

“The kids,” was the demon’s answer.

“I can watch after them.”

“Nn,” said Crawley, flicking their wrist dismissively. “Your people wouldn’t like that.”

Aziraphale tilted his head to the side. “Perhaps it would… end up inconspicuously absent. From my _official_ report.”

Through half-lidded eyes, Crawley gazed up at the angel, something unfamiliar in their expression. “Oh?”

“It’s going to be forty days and nights, Crawley,” he said, a smug smile threatening. “I can’t report _every little detail_. Michael would never assign me another important mission again. Gosh, he might reassign me.”

“Mm. Tragic.”

“Ghastly,” Aziraphale corrected. He didn’t believe those things about Michael, embellishing for the demon’s sake, but the mere thought of leaving Earth for some mundane desk job Upstairs? Perish the thought.

“Your call, angel.” The words were empty of emotion, drawn away with the demon’s receding attention to the waking world.

“Perhaps a little while longer. Would you like me to continue?”

“Mm.”

But he wasn’t much further into his recitation when Crawley’s breath slowed and steadied. “You’re falling asleep again,” Aziraphale said mildly.

“M’not. I’m up.” Crawley blinked, slitted eyes unfocused and overly wide. “I’m _wiling_.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “I see you’re a very good liar when you’re half-asleep.”

Crawley hissed out a breath, relaxing further. The demon didn’t press for the rest of the story and so Aziraphale left it unfinished. He sat there in companionable silence, broken only by the sound of the rain and thunder.

Between the storm sounds, the demon mumbled, words indecipherable until Aziraphale heard them say, “Couldn’t save the yun-nn…”

Aziraphale leaned in closer to the demon. “What’s that?”

Crawley breathed, “_Unicorn_.”

A sad smile graced the angel’s lips. “Ohh.”

Benevolence filled his heart as he bent forward, one hand out. And then he jerked to a halt. What on Earth had he almost done? Azirapale worried his hands against the too-clean fabric of his robe for something to occupy them other than which they wanted. Nervous eyes grazed the planks overhead, as though he might see if anyone observed him directly.

Several minutes stretched on before Aziraphale set a firm line to his lips, decision made. He reached across the pile of straw between himself and the demon. He settled a wide strong hand on the jutting point of one shoulder as it rose and fell with Crawley’s steady breathing.

No movement sprang up. No flailing reaction either from being startled at the connection or from Aziraphale’s holiness burning with a touch.

_Oh, thank Heaven._

He didn’t know what he would have done if Crawley had awoken in fear or, worse, in pain. Certainly he’d have had no good excuse for the touch. _One of the flies landed on you, brushed it off, haha! Go back to sleep, you old serpent._

Freely, he did brush aside a twist of red hair from where it fell across the demon’s face. They looked fitful in their rest; eyelids twitching here, brow creasing there. They’d had a long day, Aziraphale figured, what with all the foiling of the Almighty’s Plan. Gathering up the children--Aziraphale ached to see how many, how few--certainly had taken its toll on the other being.

Once, many centuries before, the demon had comforted him as they stood on a garden wall. _Oh,_ their voice had been impossibly gentle on a day fraught with missteps, _you’re an angel. I don’t think you_ can _do the wrong thing._

It was a nice sentiment, one that Aziraphale had mulled over in the intervening time quite often. Angels _could_ do the wrong thing, he was certain. Otherwise, how could the Fallen have happened?

But _kindness_ couldn’t be bad, could it? Certainly not. And he was an angel, a being of love, meant to show that love to all of Her creatures. Wasn’t this sleeping demon, who had spared so many children--still too _few_\--also a creature of Her own making? Didn’t they deserve some small kindness for their actions?

Emboldened, the angel whispered, “Sweet dreams, dear.”

As he bent down to press his lips to Crawley’s crown, the words carried a true blessing. At once, the demon sighed softly and their twitching slowed.

Though he should not have, Aziraphale breathed deeply as he settled the kiss against the sleeping demon. Their hair was caught with the warm animal smells of the ark but also a lingering smoky note beneath, an otherworldly incense of sharp spice and… What was the green scent at the edge?

Aziraphale drew away. He folded his restless hands against his stomach and counted the rhythm of the storm against the side of the boat while the demon rested.

Overhead the animals slept. The humans slept equally, those blessed by the Almighty and those abandoned by her. Only an angel stayed awake into that long first night of the flood. He was a guardian whether or not he had a flaming sword to defend with, or a gate or an apple tree to protect.

_Oh! Oh, that’s what that smell is,_ Aziraphale realized with deep fondness. _You took a piece of them with you. The apples._


	3. The Kisses by Jerusalem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably should remove "fluff" from the tags on this story, shouldn't I? This chapter is long and filled with sadness. But there ARE kisses.

But, of course, in the hold of the ark is _not actually_ how it happened…

Crowley couldn’t take her eyes from the battered young man. Part of her felt she had no right to look away when he had no choice but to endure; and another part balked that she should even set her demonic gaze upon the Almighty’s newest favorite. But then, being favored and all was hardly proving any kind of honor, was it? What was one pair of serpentine eyes fit to do to him among a crowd that had already inflicted infinitely worse?

And besides, _he_ knew her eyes. Had smiled up into them, laced with sadness. With forgiveness Crowley hadn’t asked after and knew she could never deserve.

_What has this world come to?_

Her black abaya swayed against her legs as she wound her way in from the edge of the throng, drawing closer.

The demon’s breath hitched and she stilled. Standing among the crowd’s more muted tunics and cloaks, there was a shot of light.

_Aziraphale…_

The man-shaped being had draped himself in layers of wool kept too clean and too brilliant by miraculous means. Delicate white-gold curls lay tucked away beneath the twisting cotton turban, a small mercy in a place otherwise removed of such benevolence.

_Of course he’s here. He’s always here at these sorts of things. Aren’t we both?_

The difference then was the lack of anything raining down--no first rains, no great floods, no stars crashing fire and judgment, no blood nor beasts nor insects. Just a gentle man who didn’t deserve the mocking spectacle put upon him.

Crowley didn’t want to go to the angel: the need of it scorched her. Aziraphale was not on her side, but he was a friendly face in that darkness which loomed constant at her shoulder. And so Crowley loomed over _his_ shoulder instead, keeping Heaven’s servant on her right as had suited her in the past.

“Come to smirk at the poor bugger, have you?”

“Smirk? Me?” Aziraphale barely startled.

_Were you waiting for me,_ Crowley wanted to ask. Instead, she said, “Well, your lot put him on there.”

Aziraphale frowned, and twisted his hands. “I am not consulted on policy decisions, Crawley.”

The name grated against her ears. It had been a terribly long time since she’d considered herself any sort of _Craw_ley. She had always sort of assumed she could let the angel keep calling her that. It’s what he knew, what the demon met him as. But in light of all the going-ons--and what was clearly more than simple discomfort flashing in Aziraphale’s stormy eyes--she was weary of the distance it forced between them, him not knowing how she felt, how she identified those days.

So she closed the gap, saying cool and casual, “Oh, I’ve changed it.”

“Changed what?”

“My name.” The demon scrunched her face with revulsion. “Crawley wasn’t doing it for me. A bit too squirming at your feetish.”

“Well, you were a snake,” Aziraphale pointed out, needlessly. “So what is it now? Mephistopheles? Asmodeus?”

“_Crow_ ley,” she said firmly but with forced lightness. _Isn’t this normal,_ her tone said, _aren’t we just chatting in the market and not watching the bleeding Christ child, well, bleeding?_

To punctuate the moment, the ringing of metal against metal clanged across the desert. Demon and angel both winced.

“Did you, uh, ever meet him?” It’s Aziraphale’s turn for lightness it seems.

“_Yes_,” she said. “Seemed a very bright young man. I… showed him all the kingdoms of the world.”

There was an ocean of softness in the angel’s voice as he asked, simply, “Why?”

Was he so truly stunned? Because Crowley was a demon? Or just because she was Crowley?

“He’s a carpenter from Galilee. His travel opportunities are limited,” she answered, an omission more than a lie.

Another hammer blow, and this one buried the nail through the poor young man’s wrist. Dark blood spilled from his body as swift as the wordless agony from his cracked lips.

“Ow. That’s gotta hurt.” Crowley’s heart clenched beneath her breast. It was all so senseless. Feeling lost and fighting to keep the rawness from her voice, she asked, “What was it he said that got everyone so upset?”

Aziraphale’s lips danced between a frown and miserable smile. “Be _kind_ to each other.”

_Ohh._ “Yeah. That’ll do it.”

The young man’s agony crescendoed as the soldiers raised the wooden cross. His already battered and beaten body sagged against the weight of the world, the ropes and metal pinning him there like a still-breathing butterfly on gross display.

Crowley’s throat tightened just watching him. And that was, after all, what she was there to do. Watch. Make sure none of the young man’s devotees rallied to his rescue. The Dark Council wanted a win against the forces of Heaven, especially after Crowley’d gone and buggered up the whole temptation of Christ gig. Her first major project since original sin, and she just didn’t have it in her to convince the young man of anything other than a quick vacation.

She wasn’t sure if Hell would see it her way about the road to Calvary but, far as the demon was concerned, help to carry his burden and a damp bit of cloth to his face? Well, that could hardly be considered help, could it? It wasn’t like there were anyone leaping to get whipped and crucified themselves in His name.

And so, with the angel at her side, Crowley watched. As the soldiers gambled over his clothes. As the others condemned to die sought damnation and forgiveness each. She watched.

At length, she pulled the folded edge of her shayla back across her stricken face. Only her goldenlit eyes peered out, still witnessing. She whispered to her old nemesis, her friend, “Will you stay until the end?”

Aziraphale hazarded a glance to her. “What?”

“It could take days up there like that, you know.”

Worry flashed across his face, creasing his brow. “Days? To…?”

“Yes.” She watched him, taking in his welling sadness and the edges of betrayal, the little ‘no’ formed but not spoken upon his lips. Eyes darted to the condemned and then back to the demon.

_You see it, too,_ Crowley thought, and wanted to reach for him. _I know you do. This isn’t right._

And then Aziraphale’s blue eyes abandoned her, closing as he lifted his chin skyward. “May She show mercy-”

Crowley physically recoiled at the angel’s words. She damn near hissed.

Instead, the demon whirled away with a growl, unable to stand in the presence of such a prayer without saying something regrettable. She heard Aziraphale stumble over her name as she marched away through the thin crowd, the sun long set and the blue night enveloping them all.

_Stupid angel,_ she thought as tears bit at the corners of her eyes. _Begging for mercy? From the Almighty? The one what put him on there?_

Crowley didn’t care that she had a job to do. No one was coming to anyone’s rescue, not that night. Whatever punishment came her way if it turned out differently, she’d take it if it meant not spending one more moment fixed on that slaughter.

She stalked back toward the city, snarling and hissing, keeping her anger warm. Crowley avoided the gates, turning instead toward the base of a watchtower, suddenly and _conveniently_ unmanned for the evening. She secluded herself beneath the soaring palms that lined the city wall. With a quick miracle, a shallow fire joined her and she collapsed into a heartsick heap.

“_Why_,” she keened.

There came no answer.

The demon untucked the shayla from her face. An upward drag of her hand and an amphora full of amber-colored wine appeared at her feet. The soldiers back at the death knoll likely wouldn’t notice its absence.

_Let them bicker amongst themselves if they do._

It wasn’t the best drink around, but Crowley wanted it all the same. The harshness slanted against her tongue, crowding the juicy edges of the wine into her parched throat. The taste of ash followed but reluctantly. And the more Crowley drank, the less she tasted anything. A blessing and a curse in its own right.

Shortly after humanity had started fermenting grains and fruits, the pleasant side effects of alcohol had fast become the demon’s favorite way to trick her more temperamental senses. But as a hellthing, time and invitation to imbibe were rare. Unlike that night, Crowley had always been with company. The drink always a celebration. Also unlike that night and ostensibly out of self-preservation, Crowley had previously managed to stay on the more cognizant end of drunk. She had often been tippled, frequently merry, occasionally soused, and at those few festivals that revered certain slithery creatures the demon had ever found themselves well and truly soused.

What Crowley was about to be--skipping far past wankered, steaming, and monged--was the wholly new and regrettable experience of arseholed.

If she hadn’t been so gone, perhaps Crowley would have seen the angel’s guileless approach along the wall and how he then watched her ranting rage, long weighing whether or not to approach.

Instead, Crowley tossed back her head, the ember strands of her hair shining in the firelight. “Is this Your test?” she called. “Or another marvelous _promise_? Rainbows not to drown everyone.”

The demon took another wretched swig from her third appropriated amphora.

“Blood instead of floods to cleanse their sins,” she snarled and pointed a finger heavenward. “S-sin I helped create. They say that! Did You know? Is that why You do this?”

She cried out, overwhelmed by the reach of it all. She should have drowned in that flood if it was sin and evil the Almighty claimed to be washing away.

“Shoulda been me on that lumber,” she muttered, secretive, into the mouth of the jar before drinking again.

Though he hadn’t been hiding exactly, Aziraphale stepped into the light finally and with head bowed. “Crowley…”

“Sod off,” she snapped.

Aziraphale did not, in fact, sod off. The angel stood several paces from Crowley’s fire, his hands folded together, one atop the other rubbing at his wrist. His throat bobbed as he swallowed several comments before settling on, “Are you staying in town?”

“Nnn,” Crowley said through another mouthful of wine.

Aziraphale breathed a little laugh. “You can’t be meaning to sleep out here, are you?”

The demon glared.

“It gets frightfully cold at night,” the angel added.

Crowley sneered and drank again. “The better to punish me by.”

Aziraphale tutted and broke his stillness, rounding the fire. “You don’t even have a blanket! And this… These rocks are hardly comfortable, I should think.”

“Wh-you think I don’t know that?” Crowley huffed and let the amphora clatter at her feet with the other two. “You think I don’t s-spend most of my time f-.. Lying around out in cold, hard places? What?”

Aziraphale had been eyeing the amphora. “It’s spilling, Crowley.”

“I know that!” Crowley swiped down at the handle. She wrinkled her nose as she shook the jug to inspect how much she’d lost into the dirt below. _Pour one out for Jesus,_ she thought bitterly.

Aziraphale was still hovering. Undeterred, he said, “I, uh, I haven’t known you to drink…”

“You don’t _know me_,” Crowley said, her quickdart words aimed to wound. The angel had sense enough to look rightfully reproached, and that pacified the demon.

He gestured to her side with billowing sleeves. “May I join you then?”

Crowley slammed her thin lips together and attempted to focus her bleary eyes, staring. Judging. Weighing whether or not this was a friendly gesture or one meant to lull her into a false sense of security. But when Aziraphale cast an imploring smile, she caved. He wasn’t there to harm her. That was old fears talking. _Look at him,_ Crowley thought, _he’s a bundle of fluffy nerves. What’s this night done to him, too?_

And besides. He’d revealed quite a bit of himself, asking if she’d changed her name to a demon trapped in their own personal hell. Or the demon of lust. Ha!

With the edge of understanding reaching her, forgiveness--or at least the _ability_ to allow the _attempt_ of an apology--smoothed over the tightness of Crowley’s knocking bones. One shaking branch arm extended toward Aziraphale, passing him the amphora.

“Do as you please,” Crowley hissed. She picked up a stick to poke at the fire.

“Oh, thank you.”

“Don’t go _blessing_ the dam-damnable stuff on me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Though she angled her body toward the fire, Crowley kept her companion in the corner of her eye. She watched as Aziraphale drank delicately of the stolen wine, amber droplets catching against his lips. His tongue flicked out, drawing back the escaped liquor.

Then his eyes flew open wide. He exhaled sharply with the heat of the drink. “Ooh,” Aziraphale said and coughed twice. “Oh, that burns!”

Crowley raised one dark brushstroke eyebrow. “Nnyeah? What’d y’expect?”

She reached for the jar and the angel passed it.

Aziraphale blinked back tears as he tapped lightly against his chest. “Not sure. Do they _all_ do that?”

With the mouth of the jar already pressed to her lips, Crowley choked as the wine spilled into her. She hacked and gagged, setting down the amphora.

“Are you all right?”

Crowley laughed as she caught her breath, bent over double against her knees and head swimming. She held out a hand to keep the angel from assisting, finally managing to squeak out a few words. “Never… tried it? B-before?”

Aziraphale’s innocent expression caused her laughter again.

“But you eat their _food_!”

“It’s not funny, Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly.

“S’a little funny.” The demon passed the jar back toward him, waiting. Technically speaking, Crowley hadn’t tempted Aziraphale into anything. He had asked to join her.

The fire crackled and shifted.

Aziraphale sighed deeply, and nodded. “I assume it, uh, gets better? The taste I mean?”

“Mm. Maybe. Who knows.”

The angel took another pull from the jar, wincing still but smacking his lips after. “Hmm.”

Long into the night, the angel and demon shared the weighty silence and the soldiers’ wine, the taste of both growing on them.

The moon crested the walls of the city high overhead, capturing Crowley’s forlorn attention long enough that she stopped reaching for the amphora. She tucked the edge of her shayla back across her face, feeling exposed as her eyes welled. Soft sounds scratched up and out of her throat.

Aziraphale, who had been pleasantly humming, stilled after a moment. “Cr… Crowley?”

The demon turned away.

“Are you…?”

Crowley shook her head. It wasn’t a denial of his assumption but of his concern. That would go nowhere any self-respecting demon would allow. And, drunk as she was in the moment, Crowley was not what any demon might call self-respecting.

“It’s nothing to… It’s all right if you are,” Aziraphale whispered.

The wine had clearly made him drippy. And done worse for Crowley, whose breath hitched as she said, “It’s just… What _good_ does it do?”

She snapped her golden gaze at the angel, red-rimmed and filled to bursting with questions and more questions. Aziraphale straightened as he caught that this was about so much more than the proceedings of the night.

“F-four thousand years! And still… tes-s-sting… everybody.” Sobs broke within the demon’s voice. “How are any… of us… meant to… to…”

Aziraphale moved to her side. “My dear girl. Oh! Come, come here.”

Crowley turned easily into his arms as he offered. She covered her mouth with her quivering hands--had to keep the words in, couldn’t let anyone hear, couldn’t draw attention, couldn’t let either side see her like this. But it was to no avail. The wine had pushed them out, no room left at the inn. Crowley’s devastated wails, fermented in millennia of bearing horrified witness, leaked through too narrow fingers and scattered against the firewarmed sands.

Fiercely, Aziraphale gathered her sob-wracked body to his chest. He was so much stronger than Crowley had expected. Then he caught one fluttering hand and brought it to his lips. He kissed her trembling fingertips and sharp-edged knuckles, over and over.

Crowley curled against him, tucking her legs tightly, wishing for inky coils. _Smuggle me up your sleeves, angel, hide me away._

Aziraphale kept her hand in his, pressed to his impossibly tender cheek.

She shifted in his grip to clasp his wide fingers, desperate to anchor herself through a torrent of tears. “P-please…”

“I’m here,” Aziraphale said, kissing the side of her hand once and twice, leaving his lips firmly against her skin. “You’re safe.”

She cried harder. She didn’t know why she did but she believed him. Perhaps something in the hard set of his jaw rested against the top of her head as squeezed his arm to keep her close. The Almighty Herself could come down from Heaven on high to force them apart and Crowley still knew, bonedeep, that there would be no deterring Aziraphale from her side. Not that night.

As Aziraphale’s hand on her shoulder worried the dark fabric of her dress, Crowley’s wine-drunk lips spilled her questions for every tear shed between them.

Through it all, deep into the night, her angel held her and whispered, “I’m here. You’re safe. I have you.”


	4. The Kiss That Was No Oyster’s Fault

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then Rome's chapter was almost as long as the chapters before it combined. Back in Aziraphale's perspective, and he makes me so nervous.

But, of course, by the firelight in the shadow of Jerusalem is _not actually_ how it happened…

The angel’s heart fluttered at the sound of a familiar voice among the _caupones_’ merry crowd. It wasn’t an all-together unpleasant experience, the fluttering, but quite a sudden one.

All the taverns in all the cities in all of Creation, and the demon slithered into Aziraphale’s.

Well, not _Aziraphale’s_ Aziraphale’s. More the tavern where he presently rented a room and stabled a horse he never used.

Could it truly be his old acquaintance just when he’d been so wishing for company? It seemed possible. He’d noticed that the two of them had a knack for it, the being-in-the-same-place-at-the-same-time. Normally, when they crossed paths, it felt like catastrophe was around every corner. A moment of anxiety spiked in the angel’s chest but then he calmed. No. Heaven would have given him ample warning if it was to be another Earth-shattering occurrence. No floods or plagues or the like.

Perhaps there was only a small amount of wiling at play for the demon’s part? Aziraphale was only using minor inspiration on his mission to influence the Emperor's nephew, nudging the boy Nero toward a love of music. If misery wasn’t imminent then… Then it couldn’t hurt to make sure his ears did not deceive him, could it?

Light and hopeful, Aziraphale stepped away from his lonely game of _Terni Lapilli_ and followed his bright heart toward the sound and sense of his old friend.

_Acquaintance._

And there was no mistaking the demon. All mourning black wrapped and hellfire haired, slouching toward inebriation, there could be no other. There never would be.

_Oh gosh, oh yes. That’s definitely Crawley. Crowley! They’re_ Crowley _now. Not Crawley. Definitely not Crawley. Don’t call them…_

“Crawley?”

_Oh, I..._

“Crowley! Oh!” Aziraphale tittered, flustered by his blunder. “Fancy running into you here!”

It hadn’t even been a decade since they’d last crossed paths. _Since that nasty business in Golgotha,_ Aziraphale thought somberly, remembering a reeling demon and several amphorae of terrible wine. Heaven was so oddly pleased when Aziraphale had reported back that he assumed Crowley had failed spectacularly at whatever had been their objective. Certainly Hell had been merciless in their review.

_Maybe they let Crowley go. That’d be something, wouldn’t it?_

Aziraphale eagerly sat on the stool beside Crowley. “Still a demon then?”

Crowley snapped a scowl his way. “What kind of a stupid question is that? ‘Still a demon?’ What else am I going to be? An aardvark?”

Their words struck out like the snake-shaped being they had once been but Aziraphale, unperturbed, simply miracled himself a cup of wine. Still a demon then, but no one had told the angel to keep an eye on any Hellish influences. Perhaps, with him doing the approaching for a change, they could just be... social.

Aziraphale raised his cup to Crowley’s own. “_Salutaria!_”

They toasted. If Aziraphale wasn’t paying attention, he wouldn’t have noticed the slight shift in Crowley’s slim shoulders, the loosening there, the breath exhaled to share a drink where they otherwise would have kept solitary company and called it fine.

But Aziraphale was paying attention. Rapt.

“In Rome long?”

“Just nipped in for a quick temptation. You?”

_Let’s not talk of work. Not when I haven’t seen you in so long. How did your face in this town make eight years feel like a lifetime?_ Aziraphale sipped his drink, washed down his eagerness. “I thought I’d try Petronius’s new restaurant. I hear he does _remarkable_ things to oysters.”

The silver laurels on Crowley’s head caught the light as they dipped their head in thought. “I’ve never eaten an oyster.”

Aziraphale’s eyes sparked at the revelation. “Oh! Oh, let me tempt you to—”

Crowley pinned a look at him like he’d never seen before.

Was that a bit scandal caught against the demon’s jaw? Aziraphale would take it and fly it high like a kite. He held back on going so far as winking as he said, just a bit coy, “Oh. No. That’s… That’s _your_ job, isn’t it?”

_Call me out, you old serpent. Let’s do this dance, shall we? I’m not very good at the steps, but for you? I would stumble a thousand times and be glad of it._

The warmth of Crowley’s smirk settled across Aziraphale’s cheeks. Spirits lifted and drink to their lips, Crowley’s rumble of a voice fluttered in the small space between them.

Aziraphale leaned in to hear.

“If I… happened to be going there…”

_Yes?_

“Well,” Crowley purred, “that’s not really a temptation on your part. Is it?”

“I don’t suppose it would be.”

“And if we happened to sit at the same couches, that’s nothing to write to Head Office about. Is it..?”

“Barely worth drafting a memo, I’d think.” Aziraphale finished his drink, just to show how disinterested he would be in the whole report. If anyone did ask, he could chalk it up to a well-timed thwarting.

“We’d just be keeping an eye on each other. Mmyeah?” Crowley’s goldspun eyes snagged the angel’s over those charming dark glasses.

Aziraphale may have lit up the whole tavern with his delight. “What do you think of sea urchin? I bet they’ll have them. The moon being what it is.”

Crowley smiled, tight lipped against some amusement. They settled their mug on the counter, earning a sharp look from the barmaid. With a quick gesture, Aziraphale blessed the young woman--health and happiness--and whisked the demon away. They paused at the arched doorway, where Crowley lifted the pitch-black Greek _chlamys_ from their tantalizingly exposed neck and shoulders to a more modest position covering their hair. Aziraphale’s eye caught the red, looping serpentine lines woven broadly at the edge of the wool. It went nicely with the silver brooch pinning their wrap, though the angel didn’t recognize the style.

“Shall we?”

“Lead on,” said Crowley.

Out into the January afternoon sun, the pair ventured with Aziraphale bubbling over about the menu, spilling his interests in hopes that Crowley was a ready crust of bread. He set forth options on wine, of which he had become a bit of a connoisseur about those parts--oh, he had he let Crowley draw their own conclusions those eight years ago when they shared the amphorae they kept miracling up, miserable to match miserable, before Aziraphale stopped himself from… from doing exactly what he wanted to do right then: touch. Reach out. Not to comfort through questions and tears and horror, but for the joy of it. Of seeing Crowley, the one face that remained steady those four millennia.

Aziraphale silently admonished himself: it was more than simple familiarity. Gabriel was familiar. Uriel was familiar. _Sandalphon_. None of them had ever inspired Aziraphale to seek them out. Quite the opposite, if he was being completely honest. Trips to Heaven were increasingly a bother; and when The Messenger arrived with divine orders, Aziraphale’s heart raced with no amount of fondness.

It was so different from what he felt around his should-be enemy. He hungered for every minute the other being would allow, every story he might find wedged beneath their fingernails. _Tell me where you’ve been, who else you’ve dined with. Who has heard you laugh the loudest? Who broke open your smile? Tell me, have you cried since Jerusalem? Did you know my side didn’t mourn? ‘Stiff upper lip, Aziraphale’, they said. Imagine that._

However strange it was, Aziraphale was absolutely certain that if he mentioned his own struggles, the demon would listen. Unlike certain angels. Which was, well, all of them. Not a single member of any heavenly choir had regarded him as more than an oddity ever since he was demoted after Eden.

It had taken him several dozen centuries to settle on his own self-posed question, but Aziraphale knew with certainty by then that, if Someone offered him a chance at those first days all over again, he wouldn’t change any of it.

Certainly didn’t hurt that Roman life had been especially advantageous to Aziraphale’s theory that the earth was brimming with goodness. All the mortals he worked with treated him pleasantly, seeming enamored of his blond hair and easy smile. In turn, he adored their music and theater. The shows of skill and strength were always a treat to behold. Naturally, he could have done without the public executions and that copper-tinged thirst that hung in the air deep into the nights around them.

Ah, but there were the parties! All glittering in the lamplight with feasts mounded on long wooden tables. And of course, there were the orgies. Hard to forget. Equally difficult to politely turn down, once a dinner party revealed itself to be as much about the pleasures of the flesh as they were of the plate. Aziraphale always did his very best to extricate himself from those evenings, but well… If he was going to be living among the humans, best to keep up appearances.

Not that he hadn’t met his fare share of celibate mortals over the millennia, by religion or choice or divine design. But there really was something to be said of experiencing _all_ the wonders of humanity for himself. More and more, Aziraphale’s protests that he should be getting home became about plausible deniability over any angelic chastity.

Idly, Aziraphale wondered if Crowley had ever been to one, a Roman orgy? Seemed the sort of environment a demon might work well in. Encouraging lust and all that.

_Oh, but they’re new in town. Probably not for anything like that then, or they mightn’t have taken me up on dinner._ Aziraphale would make mention of it later. Could recommend a nice group of men who were always throwing the most debaucherously lovely parties. He could even get Crowley an invitation if they wanted.

Aziraphale laughed at himself. He wanted to share so much with his old acquaintance, and yet when had they ever spent more than a few hours in each other’s company? Always some edict hung over their heads, calling them back, calling them apart.

“You know,” Aziraphale said softly as he led Crowley toward the restaurant, hoping there might be a table with a good view, “this is the first time we’re not in any rush.”

“Hmm?”

“Do you… have somewhere to be?”

“Don’t suppose I do. You?”

He beamed as he said, “I am exactly where I need to be.”

The demon’s dark brows lifted, furrowed and unsure. Molten gold eyes poured over silver-edged glasses, casting against Aziraphale a moment too long, a fraction too deeply, before cooling once more.

The angel’s heart thrilled in his chest, the foolish thing. _How do I make you look at me like_ that _again?_

But the moment had passed and Crowley was grousing. “Well. It’s going to be a mess around here soon enough, I’m sure.”

“Why would you say that?”

“The two of us? Here? Can’t be coincidence. I mean, _somebody’s_ gotta be setting up a thing they’re not gonna like.” Crowley gestured broadly at the throng of people.

Aziraphale took the opportunity to observe the chattering rushing crowd. He smiled at the families, the friends, the courting couples. They were all so alive, it filled him to bursting.

To Crowley, still scowling at the mortals, Aziraphale explained, “Beyond one boy in particular, I’ve only been under a vague order this time. Generalized inspiration and the like, spreading goodwill, love, that sort of thing. You?”

“Nn… I…” They kept their gaze averted. “Nothing Good. That the restaurant up there, yeah?”

Aziraphale followed their eye. “Oh yes, quite!”

Restaurants had been become a fast favorite of the angel’s. He could try fascinating new foods from all over the world--or what the Roman’s considered the world--without ever leaving his post. And the chefs were always experimenting with every piece of meat and fruit and vegetable imaginable. What he’d been lacking, he noted as Crowley stepped in at his side, commanding in their regard for the crowded setting, was the right company.

“Sir. Uh, madam, uh,” said a young woman, stumbling over Crowley’s non-traditional mix of attire. “_Folks_. We’re full up tonight.”

Aziraphale gasped. “Goodness! Really?”

He peered past the young woman and tutted. It was absolutely packed. Tables overflowed with bread and wine and silver boats of delicacies, while men and women crowded in, near raucous. His shoulder’s dropped as he sighed, all of the jubilance leached from him in an instant.

“Ohh, I’m so sorry, Crowley, dear. I shouldn’t have talked up this place as much as I did. I practically made you promises, and now I’ve no way to fulfill them.” He wrung his hands together and frantically ran through their options. “There are a few takeaway stalls that aren’t _terrible_ if-”

“Youshouldaskagain.”

“What was that?”

Crowley was pretending to inspect a series of small sculptures--patron deities protecting the building--as they whispered urgently through their teeth, “Ask them again.”

“What? No. I won’t demean myself over a few lost oysters.”

They craned their head toward the young woman, who was turning away a trio of hopeful patrons. “I’m telling you: you should _ask again_, Aziraphale.”

The angel rolled his eyes as Crowley snaked closer. “They are obviously booked solid-”

“Jussst…” Crowley flexed their hands, looking for something to grab and finding nothing. “Humor me, would you?”

Aziraphale’s lips set into a hard line. He studied Crowley, wondering what the demon would get out of this humiliation. Probably laugh about it with their demonic buddies over the water cooler for a few decades. Fine. If that was the price for disappointing them, he would do as asked. But he needn’t do so happily.

In a dramatic huff, Aziraphale turned on his heel to the young woman. As he expected, she was as unimpressed to see him again.

“Yes, hello. I know you said only a moment ago to _my companion_ and I,” Aziraphale said, tossing a judging look at Crowley to let her know whose idea this was, “that there are no available couches, but… Might you look one more time? Please?”

The put-upon young woman turned to the dining space while Aziraphale watched Crowley’s for their reaction.

They were suppressing a smirk.

_Well, of course they are. What demon wouldn’t enjoy watching an angel’s embarrassment?_

Then Aziraphale heard the young lady behind him saying, “That’s… odd. That…”

His attention snapped to the words. Beyond her, in a more shadowed corner, several men were arguing and storming off from each other.

She shook her head. “Looks like the senators are popping off early. Table won’t be a minute.”

Aziraphale’s mouth dropped so that their heart didn’t. How many times did he look back to their companion before he was finally able to whisper, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Ehhgg. You would have been insufferable otherwise.”

“I would not!”

“I’ve already had a miserable enough time in this city without you pouting all night. Just take the seats, Aziraphale.”

With his lips twisted into a frown, he followed the young woman to the cleared couches and table. He ordered wine reflexively when prompted but kept an eye on his guest.

Aziraphale never would have used a miracle like that on himself.

He wasn’t sure how to feel about the demonic influence now settled over those unsuspecting men. They’d certainly been riled up quickly. But there was the matter of an open table.

Was Crowley being kind or mischievous? He watched as the demon scanned every other face in the room, once, twice.

_They’re nervous,_ Aziraphale realized. “Are we, uh, being watched?”

They went to answer when the wine and water showed up.

“Such service,” Aziraphale offered tightly. “Thank you.”

He ordered the oysters--and the sea urchin, too, when he saw that they were in--then waited for the mortal to scurry off.

Crowley answered at last, “Seems clear.”

They both visibly relaxed in their little corner. It was not the table Aziraphale would have chosen, but he was glad for the lower light and how no one gave them a second thought, tucked away as they were. A secret in plain sight. An angel and a demon, dining at Petronius’s.

“This really is much better than if we’d ended up at one of the stalls,” Aziraphale said, chuckling at himself and cutting the wine with scoops of water. He lifted a glass to Crowley. “Thirsty?”

The serpent blinked. “Gasping for it, yes.”

Aziraphale happily poured the wine, a strong glass for each of them. They toasted a second time in one day.

Crowley barely took their eyes off the angel when they didn’t have to. And, with Aziraphale doing all of the ordering and thanking of the mortals who bustled about, that meant he spent most of the meal under that increasingly fond gaze.

_When did this happen?_ Aziraphale wanted to ask in the lulls that never showed in their conversation, _Are we friends? I hope you think so._

He makes a show of explaining the oysters. Some, though not the ones at their table, came to the empire packed in snow and carted over the mountains from the far northern reaches.

“Albion,” Crowley said, sounding pleased with themself.

“What’s that?”

“I’ve been… You know, up north. For a time now. Albion. Probably getting them from the Isles.”

Aziraphale grinned. “And you’ve never thought to try them?”

The demon twirled their skinny bone fingers at the angel, encouraging him to continue, and sipped more of the sea dark wine.

Aziraphale had learned the fine art of eating oysters over dozens of dinner parties and took great care and delight in imparting that knowledge to Crowley. The tapping, the firm close of the living, the clacking of the dead--only one in their pile. The short blade meeting tight hinge, the dig and vibration against the razor-sharp shell. Twist it there, feel the pop, slide the blade to cut the meat.

Crowley watched Aziraphale demonstrate, wincing ever so slightly when the shell separated. “They’re still alive.”

“Only until they’re opened.”

“But you’re… killing them? You?”

“This is food, Crowley.”

The demon looked like they were committing the comment to memory, and who was to say they weren’t?

“They spoil very quickly otherwise,” Aziraphale added. “You can get sick.”

“You don’t _get_ sick.”

“If you don’t want to eat them, you can just say so.”

That seemed to do the trick. Crowley motioned for the blade. “Give it here.”

It only took a few tries, and a blessing on Aziraphale’s part, but Crowley did not cut themself on the blade or the shell. The oyster popped open, revealing the saltlick brine.

“Very good,” Aziraphale said, indulgent. He waited as Crowley contemplated the creature about to be devoured. “You can drink the water first but then take the whole of the flesh in your mouth. Be sure to chew. The true flavor experience is in the chewing.”

“I’m n-not sure about that.” But then shaking fingers brought the oyster to parted lips and teeth. The juice trickled along the purple edges, spilling, until the demon caught it, tongue flicking. At last, the dainty oyster slipped and tilted and found its way home.

Aziraphale breathed in, waiting again.

Crowley made a show of chewing, smiling at the corners as they finished. They reached for the wine and took a deep swig. “There,” they said, softly. “Now I’ve eaten an oyster.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, caught on the way the demon’s throat looked as they swallowed. He blinked away whatever thoughts were about to surface for air. “Yes! Yes, so you have. What do you think?”

“Yeah, not bad. Salty. Green?”

Aziraphale nodded and went for his own half-shell to stay distracted from the thoughts he definitely was not having. “I’m so glad. Thank you for indulging in me. _In_ indulging me. In eating. The oysters.”

“The oysters,” Crowley repeated, and downed the rest of their glass to fill another.

Aziraphale hid behind his oyster, chewing and swallowing, and barely remembering to enjoy it, hoping his cheeks were not actually on fire.

When the sea urchin arrived with bread and broth, Aziraphale contemplated just calling it a night then and there. Caught in Crowley’s gaze as he scrapes the bread against the shell, getting at the mint and garlic, Aziraphale felt he was the one being eaten alive.

It’s small bites: the turn of a lip at a joke, the flash of sun-yellow over smoky quartz, of amphora red curls unwinding. In earth tilling fingers playing with the edge of a clay glass. In laughter slipped through unrestrained before it was carefully wrapped back in the wool that keeps it cool over the mountains.

None of them, not oysters nor urchin nor angel, are eaten to satisfy anything other than taste and smell and sight. It is the experience that is key. It is the company they keep.

All the while, Aziraphale kept the conversation going. He had to. He’d choke and sputter if he didn’t. And didn’t Crowley look happiest when they were listening? They didn’t eat more than Aziraphale encouraged, and didn’t eat when Aziraphale wasn’t. They drink readily, as if hungry for the wine. And maybe they were. There could be many differences between an angel and a demon.

But Crowley certainly seemed to fill up on the conversation.

_Kiss them._

“Ha ha.” Aziraphale coughed against his thought. “So you, uh, you’ve cut your hair.”

Crowley self-consciously reached to the shorn short back. The hair feathered at their long-fingered touch.

“Yeah,” they drawled, “needed a change. You know. After _things_.”

“It’s quite fetching,” Aziraphale said. Then he gestured to one side of his own face, indicating the coiling serpent that forever whispered in Crowley’s ear. “Shows that off nicely, I’d say.”

Crowley stammered, turned away, shrugged, couldn’t seem to decide what came next, and finally settled on drinking more.

There were still several oysters waiting to meet their end. Aziraphale pointed. “You didn’t like them?”

“They’re fine.” There came a sad turn of their lips and a long drink of the dwindling wine.

“If you’re not partial to the oysters, there’s always snails on the menu.”

“Snails?”

“Mm, oh, yes. Fattened on milk and bay leaves and… Ah, but I do keep assuming your _tastes_. I apologize. _Do_ you like snails?” _Do you remember how they’d make dye from them? Tyrian purple, like the night sky just around dusk when the stars are peeking out. You would look lovely in it. Luminous._

Crowley was smirking again. “I’ve been known to enjoy snails. When I have them.”

The delight beat against Aziraphale’s breastbone. “Ah, excellent! Shall we order some then?”

“The oysters are fine, Aziraphale.” Crowley laughed, softened by wine and conversation. “Really.”

“But you’re hardly eating.”

The clay cup went up, another deep sip. The wine stained their lips. Aziraphale could not look away as Crowley said, “I hardly eat.”

It was probably the alcohol talking, but those sounded like the saddest words he’d ever heard. He couldn’t press for more, though. Instead, Aziraphale gestured to the shells with their briny secrets tantalizingly hidden. “You don’t mind then, if...?”

Crowley sighed, contented. “All yours.”

“So you’ve been north?”

In the space Aziraphale carves out shucking the remaining oysters and coaxing the silky meat from the deep scoop of the shell, Crowley fills in with words of their own at last.

“The Isles,” Crowley said, reverent. “I gotta say, being on the outskirts of the so-called civilized world? Highly recommend it.”

“Isn’t it cold though?” He placed each shell down-turned on the mountain-chipped ice, which was mostly water by that point in the meal. _How many corners of the world must have folded inward upon themselves to gather us here._

“Mm, well, yeah? But it’s... It’s nice to warm up. And at least you can! Too hot here. Too crowded.” The demon shook their head at the slowly thinning crowd in the high-class restaurant. “Not much can be done here. I mean, just look at it?”

“I like Rome.”

“You say that now.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“No, no, if you haven’t run up with its seedier underbelly, far be it from me to pull back the veil.”

Aziraphale pointedly licked along the edge of his current oyster’s shell, glaring.

“Nngg... Anyway! I’m heading back there when I’m done. You could, I don’t know, look me up. If you’re in the area.”

“If I’m in the area..?”

“If you wanted to… you know, make a better show of… good deeds and all that. Lots of potential there. Plenty of, uh, influences to be made. On humanity.”

“I very much doubt that,” Aziraphale said primly. “Rome is the height of the modern world. I’m quite happy here, thank you.”

Crowley shook their head, though it was clear they were not upset with Aziraphale. “Well, it’s certainly the height of something. Head office dragged me out of my n-nice little house very sssuddenly and said they wanted me in Rome. To tempt an-an emperor of all people.”

“Yes, you mentioned,” Aziraphale said, very carefully. “Caligula.”

Crowley groaned. It was a wreck of a sound. “Frankly, he doesn’t actually need any tempting to be appalling,” Crowley said between their fingers running over their face. “Going to report it back to head office as a flaming success.”

Aziraphale decided then he wouldn’t recommend the parties he was thinking of earlier. Nor would he assume those get-together were nearly so debaucherous in comparison. Anything that could leave a demon reacting like that? Must have been well and truly awful.

_Kiss them._

“The check! Yes. I’ll get the check. And what do you say to another jug of wine while I’m at it? We can take your _very delicate_ conversation about the emperor out of earshot from anyone you might not want hearing it, hmm?”

Crowley waved at the angel, lost in whatever tragically uncouth memory had thrown them off while Aziraphale got the attention of one of the employees.

“We’ll take the wine with us, and the check if you could be so kind.”

The man glanced between the two and then said. “But you’ve already paid?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale leaned back on the couch. “Yes, of course. Silly me. Must have forgotten. Quite the vintage you have here!”

The server left to get an amphora for them--wondering if they really should be having it at all--and Aziraphale toed at Crowley’s leg.

When the demon leered up at last, he said, “You didn’t have to _do that_.”

_Kiss them._

They sneered. “Well, don’t complain about it.”

The thrumming thought was more than Aziraphale could handle as it stuck in belly. As they walked with the water-cut wine, passing it between each other, the angel let his companion rant about the scene they had been forced to work through. He nodded where appropriate, looked scandalized at others. He did not let his neatly manicured fingers linger as they brushed across the tender shoots of the demon’s own. They filled their mouth with the drink instead and led Crowley back to his rooms at the _caupone_.

Aziraphale lit the lamps in the room with a quick miracle. Crowley draped across the nearest piece of furniture--the straw-stuffed bed with its layers of wool blankets, the only place big enough for two--and the nearby wall. When the demon reached toward the wine, Aziraphale sat beside them.

He watched them drink, waiting. For the wine to be gone. For them to feel better for having vented.

“Here,” Crowley said and passed the amphora back.

Aziraphale regarded it, took the jug, and set it aside. A moment later, Crowley tossed the silver laurel from their crown, skipping it across the floor with a clatter and clink.

_Kiss them…_

Aziraphale turned back, ready to confess.

But Crowley was kissing him.

_Wait…_

He was kissing Crowley. His lips parting and tongue searching. Finding the taste of them together, the soft gentleness of starving.

_What is…_

Crowley pulled him closer. Aziraphale dragged them into his lap.

_What is going on?_

Aziraphale’s head fell back in the moment, trying to catch his breath as Crowley’s mouth moved to his cheek.

“Crowley,” he whispered, half-gasping. Aziraphale shut his eyes to the warm heat of a slightly forked tongue, lavishing along his jawline. He could feel the bitter wine from both their tongues, the salt from the ocean of time from whence they’d washed ashore.

“_Angel_…”

A simple word, a prayer. And just like that! It cut through the haze of yearning. Aziraphale’s eyes opened. _What would they do to you if they heard?_ _I mustn’t let them._

“Crowley?”

When they didn’t stop kissing his neck--_oh don’t stop, please, never stop_\--Aziraphale hovered a hand between them. Crowley grabbed that hand in theirs, pressed his fingers to their chest, the sweet beating heart of them.

Firmer, and hating to, he said again, “Crowley!”

Crowley stopped. Everything about them stopped. They damn near froze in Aziraphale’s lap. They pulled back enough from Aziraphale that he could see those golden eyes over the tops of their dark glasses, wide but controlled. The past few moments slammed into them then with audible force.

“Shouldn’t have… I…” Crowley recoiled sharply. They became a whipcord of terror, guilt, shame. Their eyes flickered to Aziraphale’s hand like he might, like he might hurt them.

_Oh Lord, no, I could never!_ “Crowley,” Aziraphale said, gentling, “my dear, you’re drunk.”

Crowley exhaled. They weren't drunk. If they had been, they’d sobered up. “Nn-Must be. Can’t believe I… Ruined a perfectly good night, sss’what I did. I’ll…”

Crowley moved to stand but found it hard to get their footing. Anywhere they could go required touching Aziraphale and oh, Aziraphale wanted them to stop worrying and touch him but he’d just ended everything and...

“Shouldn’t have done that. _Tempting_,” they said, dismissing whatever emotions were streaked on both of their faces. “I’ll sssee myself out, yeah?”

“Absolutely not!” Aziraphale rested a hand on Crowley’s shoulder as the demon--_I am an angel, they are a demon! What am I doing?_\--tried to move past him.

Crowley looked ready to shake apart from the hope mingling with their fear. They were still so scared, so scared of Aziraphale, he could see that. His heart might shatter if he had to keep seeing that look on that face.

Aziraphale moved to touch their hand and they flinched. But he took it, needing to prove it to both of them that he was _not_ going to _hurt_ anyone.

He forgot there were other ways to hurt.

Aziraphale laughed despite himself. “The oysters,” he said, even though he knew it had absolutely fuck all to do with the oysters.

“Wut?” Crowley looked at their hands touching.

“Aphrodisiac,” Aziraphale added quickly. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think you--we!--would be, uh, susceptible. To the effects. Of the _oysters_.”

“Oh. Right.” They blinked and looked away. There was some measure of gratitude as they breathed and swallowed, as though Aziraphale has done some endless mercy. They took their hand away to push up their glasses along the curve of their nose, barely concealing their eyes much more but it seemed to help. “Must’ve been the, yeah, the oysters.”

_I’m being terrible. Why are we lying about this? Why must I be terrible to you?_

Crowley attempted to lighten it with, “Sh-should’ve had the snails, I guess, huh?”

_You’re still being so kind to me. How do you do that? Why?_

“A-Aziraphale?” Crowley tilted their head to peer over the silver edges of their glasses. “You all right?”

He wiped delicately at his eyes, the stinging water of him pooled there. “That was cruel of me.”

Crowley shook their head. “Oysters, ‘member?”

“No. No, that’s not what--”

Aziraphale stepped away from the bed, digging his fingers into the white fabric draped at his sides.

_You think you’re the only one who is unforgivable, don’t you? If I go against the Plan, I won’t be forgiven. Caring has yet to be unforgivable, do you see? Could caring for you be a sin? I don’t believe it could, but it’s never been mine to decide. To question. I have so many_ questions _when you’re around. Oh, to Hell and back._

Aziraphale miracled the evening’s drink from his corporation. The world swam but he steadied on. He remained standing, staring.

They’d barely kissed and somehow Crowley looked half ravished.

“Listen, I understand if you’d rather I didn’t. But…” Aziraphale took a shaky breath. “Might I be given a chance to correct this? Please?”

“H-how exactly?” He’d blanched Crowley. Dropped them into the boiling water.

Aziraphale reached again and this time Crowley didn’t flinch. It was something. He took their hand. “Crowley, would it be all right if I kissed you?”

Dunked in the ice bath. Chilled. “But you’d…”

Crowley cut themselves off sharp, the blade between their hinge threatening to pry them open.

“I won’t,” Aziraphale said, not sure if they were each having the same thoughts but needing to assure Crowley all the same. It was clear neither of them could stand to think the words let alone say them aloud. So Aziraphale said again, “I won’t.”

All Crowley could manage was to swallow down the salt crystallized in their throat. Lips parted, their stony shell peeking open, tongue glancing to dampen their driest edges. Inviting.

_It’s not a temptation,_ Aziraphale thought firmly, _if I happen to meet you there._

He knelt on the bed. Crowley sat away from the wall to join him, steadying a hand beside his.

Just a kiss, gentle, just a taste. A promise.

Crowley shut their eyes and leaned into Aziraphale’s hand on their shoulder. A soft sound trickled through their throat and Aziraphale felt his knees buckle. He deepened their kiss, the touch of warm meeting warm, nothing of heaven or hell between them there on that small Roman bed.

_I cannot be satisfied by this small taste of you. If I’m not terribly careful, I could devour you whole, drink you from existence. I must savor you. Must be satisfied that we are sharing this together._

He was loathe to sit back but he had to. Crowley stared at him like the holy thing he was and Aziraphale couldn’t stand it. He rested his forehead against his friend’s.

“Thank you.” _You’re still alive. I’ve got you._

Crowley nodded, wordless. Choked. A hand covered their mouth.

_I swallowed your words, didn’t I? No worries. I shall keep them here, beneath my tongue, for when we can speak them together._

Hesitantly, Aziraphale pulled them down against the bed. To lay there, wrapped in the heavy blanket together. Crowley sighed against his neck and they were not flinched or afraid.

It was going to be all right.

Against the undone curls of his friend’s hair, Aziraphale whispered, “If you’re still here tomorrow, we could go to Palatine Hill for the games. If you’d like? I hear the fourth day is the most splendid.”

“Sure, angel.” Crowley said, sounding exhausted but content, “N-no harm in that. Games.”

“Good. I hope you’ll be here in the morning then.”

And they were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience! And your kind words! I love to hear from you. Please let me know if I've reached out and found you here. :3
> 
> Also, I did so much dang research for this chapter. XD The bit that's most relevant: Caligula is assassinated the following night. ^_~


	5. The Kisses in Wessex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Please forgive any missing word errors. I'll find them and fix soon.)

But, of course, in a lamp-lit Roman room is _not actually_ how it happened…

“Absolutely not!” Aziraphale’s voice pitched through the fog-laden clearing, disappearing into the cedar branches. “I am shocked that you would even imply such a thing. We are not even having this conversation. Not another word.”

The demon was disappointed, confused, but not about to argue with the steady stream of words raining down on them. “Right.”

“Right.” Aziraphale’s eyes widened, nose scrunched and lips upturned. The angel walked away, clanking and clattering in his armour as he did, the final say on his dissatisfaction.

Crowley turned to their people in the fog and rolled their serpentine eyes. With a great effort, they shrugged and started back for camp.

“Come on, then. Time for lunch, lads.”

Food had been terribly scarce the past two years but the troupe always made do. Always found fish in the rivers even off season. Always carrots, mushrooms, and crab apples to forage despite the bitter frosts. The occasional boar wandered close enough to hunt without the landowners’ suspicion.

The gods smiled upon them, in clear support of their cause.

It was in a demon’s best interest to let the humans keep believing that they’d been sent by some benevolence. Some knight defected from Arthur’s court, born of man and monster. It helped everyone look past their yellow slitted eyes and the peculiarities of their habits. Never being seen to eat, to start, and sleeping most of the day. Never needing any assistance with their armour. Staring mournfully at the starless graydust night sky, unblinking.

In the hidden dale, the cooking fires already burned and precious little meat simmered in a large pot on the brightest flames. Quick hands set about bundling linen cloths with long strings, wherein the nettle puddings would cook until tender for the knife. The fresh green scent of chopped red-veined sorrel and the sharp bite of chives perfumed the air as Crowley passed. Despite the smoky damp, these were all the smells that carried on the winds. Another little luxury the demon allowed themself, having more than enough of filth and putrescence every time they had to check in at the festering halls of Hell.

They ducked into their tent, away from their band at the far end of the camp. With a snap, their black armour disappeared neatly into the wooden chest kept as a low table. A silk-trimmed tunic replaced it, fitted at the wrists. Black, of course, and belted with a strong strip of red fabric over tight woolen hose.

They scratched their nails through the waves of their damp hair, helmet curled and clinging to their forehead and neck. The demon fixed the red strands into something halfway presentable to their iron blooded mirror, mercury-backed and reflecting green; so like the green long-stolen in the endless dark, the changeling child left limping and yellow in its place.

Crowley tore their eyes away. “What a morning.”

Another snap of their fingers and flames leapt to, burning charcoal and a few glossy drops of myrrh in the braziers set to either side of a wide bench at the center of the tent. Crowley collapsed onto the bench and reached for the silver snake brooch they’d kept since the debacle in Rome. As they pinned the tunic in place, Crowley thought about that first time they’d been missing their stone home out in Caerfyrddin, with its river views and the apple trees they tended to with unbearable patience. They had made a home tucked away from the Angles and the Saxons, shortly before the Romans invaded, bringing too many stinging reminders. Crowley had been just as eager back in the first century to have their assignment over as they were five hundred years later.

_Won’t be much longer,_ they thought and tried not to dwell on why or what it meant to have received their final orders for the Wessex Project. Also tried not to parse what it meant to run into _Sir Aziraphale of the Table Round_ so close to the end of the job. The angel had done the approaching, no less--not that he knew it, to start.

It had been a few hundred years of only seeing each other in passing, whenever Crowley might pop off to different parts of civilization for whatever assignment they had. A quick hello, a hesitant smile, a nod. But never any time spent together.

Because of Rome.

_Shouldn’t have had those oysters. Tricky things._

Crowley sighed, deep down to their bones, the phantom of brine on their lips. They coiled on the blankets on the bench, curling tight to their stomach. They dragged up a heavy sheepskin from beneath and hunkered down into the little nest for a midday nap.

They drifted off, enjoying dreams of walking barefoot on rocky shores and the scent of apple blossoms on the salt-spray wind.

Over the years stuck in Arthur’s kingdom, Crowley had indulged more and more in the respite of sleep. They’d fully grown to love it. What they did not love was that sleep being interrupted. Especially not for food. So when the demon heard one of the men puttering about in the tent, setting an unfamiliar warm-smelling dish on the wooden chest, they flailed in the man’s general direction and mumbled, “Not today. Lemme sleep.”

The man tutted. “I didn’t come all this way,” he said, “just to be shooed off like a common kitchen boy.”

His voice was too prim to be one of Crowley’s troupe. They shot upright, tossing aside the sheepskin in their momentary panic.

The haze of dream-edges left the demon with the dawn of recognition. “Angel.”

Aziraphale sat beside the chest, one muted eyebrow raised in question but not alarm.

Notice the downy hair, curling to his shoulders in ringlets to put any highland sheep to shame. Notice the armour gone, now a bleached linen tunic draped to the knee, the fine woolen hose tucked into leather turnshoes. Notice the fur-trimmed cloak discarded comfortably by his side, as though this were his own tent deep in the forest.

Notice the demon’s breath catch at the heavenly sight. How many years they have dreamed of Aziraphale there when they awoke, doe-eyed and doting. But they cannot say these words, these betrayals of emotions not fit for hellthings, and so instead...

“Why the devil are you in my tent?” Crowley pulled their sheepskin back to their chest, half scandalized as Aziraphale smiled with benevolence.

“Frumenty.”

Crowley scoffed. “Wot, peace and tranquility? Here?”

“The porridge, Crowley.”

Sure enough, on the chest sat two bowls, steam rising. Crowley scented the air and tasted rich cinnamon beneath cracked wheat and milk.

“W-where did you get black corinth?”

Aziraphale lit up brighter than the burning braziers, his hazel eyes twinkling with mischief. “Ah! Yes! Well. When I arrived at my camp, it dawned on me. My misunderstanding. I… I had one of my men cook up some porridge. He said it was a bit of a miracle he _just so happened_ to have all the ingredients with him.”

“Mm-yes, I’d say so.” Crowley tussled with the rising smile at his corners.

“I was hoping to, uh, share?”

Crowley gave the table a thorough looking at: the porridge was still hot, despite however far away laid the pot that birthed it, set in two neatly poured bowls with two intricately carved wooden spoons. Showing off for no one in particular.

_Showing off... for me?_ Their heart clattered beneath their breast, all dropped and fumbled, off-kilter from the settling shock of finding Aziraphale there. Really there. And offering food, of all things. Crowley had certainly thought they’d never be invited to share a meal together after… all of that. _Let’s not fuck this one up, right, mate?_

“This isn’t business,” Aziraphale said quickly into the extended silence. “I meant what I said earlier. But I don’t see why we can’t catch up? Unless that nap you were taking is more pressing…”

“No! No,” Crowley said and swung their legs out from under the sheepskin. “Not at all. Nothing, er, pressing.”

“Oh, good!”

“Yeah, all right. Let’s try a bite then.” Crowley stood and began rearranging their bench, bringing it to the make-shift table, fetching another from across the room for their guest.

_My guest._

Crowley sighed with delight as they muttered, “Corinth. Really, Aziraphale.”

“Sugar seemed a bit of a stretch,” he said and took the offered seat.

“Hmm. However would you have explained that one.” Crowley leaned on their elbow, long fingers splayed under their chin and a smirk on their wide mouth.

A light flutter of the angel’s dark lashes sent Crowley’s heart stuttering. Helpless, they stared determinedly at their steaming bowl of porridge.

“Go on, then.”

“Huh?”

“You should _eat_ it, not _glare_ at it.”

“Wh-I… I’m not glaring.”

They had been glaring. Just a bit. It wasn’t that Crowley didn’t want to eat the porridge--they were even looking forward to the first few bites--but the intensity with which the angel watched and waited made them so strangely shy about the prospect. Every movement and sound, each twitch of the lip would be under sharp-eyed scrutiny. There would be no hiding how they felt about every bite. Which, when one didn’t enjoy being seen to eat on a good day, gave the demon a major case of stage fright.

Crowley put on a neutral face, pretending they didn't know how Aziraphale hungered for their reaction. They casually scooped the thick oats, breathed in the creamy, earthy aroma, and steeled themself for the taste as they closed their mouth on the wooden spoon.

Yes, the rich smoothness rolled easily on their tongue, the sweet and tart mixing with the ever-present ash.

“I do hope you like it,” Aziraphale fretted. “I-I may have gotten the exact amounts wrong when I gathered the ingredients, but Wendel could be a world-class chef if-”

“Aziraphale…”

“-given ample opportunity and training. And I’m-”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley tried again.

“-always telling him that he should consider studying in Gaul-”

“Angel.” Crowley reached across to Aziraphale, settling a hand atop his knee. “It’s good.”

Aziraphale’s round shoulders relaxed. The sigh that escaped him warmed Crowley more than the coals in the brazier at their back.

“You didn’t have to go out of your way like this,” they added. “You’re always welcome. With me. Don’t need an excuse.”

“Yes but I wanted to. Not that I-I mean to imply- This _wasn’t_ going out of my way.”

Crowley burst into laughter. “Quite literally, you had to turn around and come back.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips and leveled his gaze. “Anyway,” he said and reached for his own spoon. “I’m glad you like it. Wendel said the secret is a pad of butter melted in.”

As the two ate, they chatted. If Aziraphale was a bit more enthusiastic about the food than Crowley was, neither commented. And Crowley, for their part, made certain to take a few bites more than they might have otherwise. It made Aziraphale happy, and how could they deny him that? When he was real and truly there, the demon felt they could deny him nothing.

The conversation lasted far longer than the porridge’s heat should have, had it not been in the hands of miracle workers. And so they moved from topic to topic, unhurried. How had Crowley fared up there in Albion during the Roman invasion? Was Aziraphale near Pompeii or Herculaneum when the tragedy struck? What had the other been doing visiting China in the late second century? And the like. All the while, the demon sunk deeper into a sense of rightness, wrapped in the easy flow of words between them.

Crowley was particularly delighted to hear how the once-proud Rome had fallen from favor, ousted for the new hotness of Constantinople, housing both the center of the Church and about half a million mortals. Rome? Down from that to only a few hundred.

“Well, a few hundred _and_ the Pope. You’d think he counts for more the way his supporters go on.” Aziraphale added through Crowley’s brazen laughter, “He’s very jealous. Constantinople’s so vibrant these days! I was there before this reassignment, in fact. Oh, you should see it. The university, the arts centers!”

As he described the city, the angel seemed half a breath away from asking Crowley to take the trip with him that instant. If he had asked, Crowley would have gone. They’d hoped a century before not to entangle with the Romans again--after Constantine withdrew his troops, the demon had danced in the ocean and cursed out the whole damn empire--but for Aziraphale they would ride into the belly of that beast.

_How long do I have you?_ Crowley wondered as Aziraphale chatting amiably about Constantinople and Alexandria. _Just until the porridge is done? Can that be enough? I must stock my stores with the memory of you._

When they couldn’t stomach the porridge any more, Crowley slid their bowl over. Before Aziraphale could ask, Crowley answered the question in his raised brows and opening mouth. “Real treat, Aziraphale,” they said. “Stuffed. Couldn’t eat another bite.”

“If you insist.”

Crowley leaned closer to the little fires, sprawling on the bench which normally only saw them in tight curls. Everything was... comfortable. How was it possible for that place, which had only ever felt temporary, to gain a sense of permanence with Aziraphale in it?

_Funny that, too, when his presence is the most passing part of all._

Aziraphale leaned closer as he scooped several dried corinths onto his spoon, a playfulness in his gaze. “The Merovingians, are those your people’s?”

“Haven’t the foggiest.”

Ever since Christianity had invaded the Frankish realms, Crowley had grown bored with the minor assignments there to stir up fear of their Lord. Oh, sure, the serpent featured heavily in those humans’ mythos, but there was no flattery in the portrayal but propaganda, meant to control whole swathes of the pious public. On a particularly dull assignment to blow out a young woman’s candle one night, Crowley had milled about and learned there was a certain propensity to blame Eve not only for _falling to the serpent’s tricks_ but also for seducing her husband into joining her. Painted as eternal victim and villain, both too naive and too cunning, her deeds were a mark upon her daughters even still.

And all she’d wanted were a few answers.

But angel was talking. “Of course. Well, the king’s just taken another wife.”

“Scandalous.”

“Mm. Seems to do it every time there’s a new kingdom up for grabs.” Aziraphale chuckled mirthlessly. “Just marry the widow. Threaten the heirs and send them to a monastery.”

“Monastery?” Crowley sneered.

“Something or other about haircuts. It’s all very David and Goliath if you ask me.”

“Working wonders from the sounds of it.”

“Yes. The food’s quite nice there in Paris, though. You might consider trying it some time if you’re ever in the area.”

“Yeah, I might.”

_Can I… persuade you to stay longer? Would you want that? No one will bother us. I’ll see to it. Let me…_

“Have you,” Crowley started, hesitant and going for casual, probably failing, “tried the beer they make here?”

“Which?”

“Barley.”

Aziraphale looked thoughtful. “Can’t say as I have. Not here, that is. Any good?”

“It’s…” Crowley wrinkled their nose and gathered the memory of the taste. “Passable? Y’like to try? I have some in camp if you fancy.”

The angel didn’t need to answer with words. The excitement rolled off him.

A snap and a small oak barrel appeared at their feet, the liquid inside sloshing as it settled. Crowley set about hammering the small wooden peg in the lid as they’d seen humans do, driving it down into the beer with a muted _plunk_.

“There’s cups,” Crowley said, gesturing vaguely.

Aziraphale stood and looked for a few moments. “There aren’t.”

“Sure, on the… Whatchacallit.”

Aziraphale’s glare could have burned holes through the wool walls of the pavilion.

“You know!”

He let out a huff. “I’ll just bring mine.”

“Perfectly good cups here. Maybe the kids nicked them.” Crowley jumped up from the prepped barrel and stalked over to the angel. As they dug through the nearest satchel hanging from one of the poles, they muttered, “Unless I left them outside again?”

Before they could take the two long strides to the tent’s entrance, Crowley heard the sharp snap of fingers. There on the chest, newly arrived from Aziraphale’s miracle, were two goblets; far too fancy for the demon’s humble dwelling, more suited to a king’s feast hall.

“Aw, no, Aziraphale!” Crowley clucked their tongue. “Come on. You already did, you know, the... forminty. And getting here and- And I _have_ cups! I’m not an animal.”

They left out the fact that half the cups in camp were made from the skulls of actual animals. The angel didn’t need to know that.

“_Frumenty_,” Aziraphale corrected. “And it was faster this way, rather than you running around half your camp looking for whatever you have. Come sit. I had these sent up special from Constantinople when I was assigned here. They’ve been enamelled. Can you see?” The angel looked quite pleased with himself.

Crowley sneered but assented and, as they inexpertly poured the brew from the squat little barrel, they did have to admit: the cups caught the eye. A smooth vibrant black design wound over the silver form of one, similar in gold enamelled the other to match.

_Why not just two with gold?_ Crowley wondered. _Does he have a mate to each or is this… No. Stop. Don’t read into it. He didn’t know you were here._ To cover their beastly curiosity, Crowley bit out, “Oh yes, fine imported cups for my ailing beer. How sophisticated.”

The angel peered into his golden vessel. “I thought you said it was passable?”

“Might have stretched m’review a bit...” Crowley toasted with too rich cup, a cup their people would have sold in an instant. “To chance meetings.”

“May they never cease.” Aziraphale lifted his glass and two clinked together.

Crowley was quick to take the first sip. Not that it was necessary to prove they weren’t poisoning anyone. Either could miracle away any ailment from their corporeal forms. Still, it was the thought that counted. Or so the demon hoped.

Chock full of hope, they were. Absolutely bursting at the seams with it.

The barley ale, on the other hand, could not be described as chock full of anything. Muddled and weak, it was hardly better than the polluted waters running through the country.

Aziraphale grimaced and Crowley recoiled but, after a minute, both settled.

“Yep. Like I remembered.”

“Wine!” said Aziraphale. “_Wine_ ages well in oak. Did you know?”

“Seems to all right, yeah. Still miss the amphorae. Easier to pour, they were.”

“The amphorae,” Aziraphale echoed, a flash of embarrassment crossing his brow. “Lovely times.”

_Oh, what is this look upon your face? That softness there… Is it meant for me or for yourself? Forgiveness or guilt, which is mine to sneak into my pocket? I’ll take only take it at night when no one else is watching._

_Should I apologize? Maybe that’d be odd. After all these centuries. Best to leave it on the table alongside the dried-milk edges of bowls and spoons._

_But if an apology would draw you closer, I would pour my heart in place of this spineless brew._

As Crowley contemplated what it might feel like to run their fingers through the angel’s long locks--so long, they guessed, as much to fit in with the other men of Arthur’s retinue as because it was too cold for his favored tightly groomed curls--they took a deep draught of the _barely_ beer.

Terrible. But the focus on the taste gave the time they needed to think of conversation other than _I’ve missed you_ and _Sorry for kissing you, that time you probably forgot about_.

“England,” Crowley said firmly. “Land of the _Angels_. That your people’s doing?”

“Pardon?”

“What, they couldn’t leave well enough alone? Had to come take the one part of the world I’d staked out for m’self?” Crowley was exaggerating, but Aziraphale wouldn’t know that the demon’s chosen home of Cymru had miraculously avoided Roman occupation and the ensuing tribes that came in from across the _Morimaru_ . “I mean, I don’t mind _you_ being here, of course. But it’s a bit on the nose even for Upstairs.”

Something about this sent Aziraphale into knee-slapping laughter. “Crowley?”

“What?”

“Angles, Crowley. _Ang_land.”

“Angles?” The demon curled their lips as they fell into thought, staring into the middle space. “Angles... The Anglo-_Saxons_. Ohhh, for- So I’ve just been…?”

Aziraphale’s laughter petered out as he wiped at his eyes. “Mishearing. At a guess.”

_Wishful thinking, more like._ “All right, still, here you are. And I here I am. In this land of the _Angles_. With substandard alcohol.” Crowley sloshed the drink around in the fancy silver cup, thinking, thinking. “What’re your thoughts on mead?”

Aziraphale perked up. “Is that an option?”

“Camp’s got some. Honey-sweetened.”

“Would they’d mind?”

“Naw, it’s fine. Come on, we’ll fix this.” They stood, offering their hand. Without any reluctance, Aziraphale accepted.

The fleeting contact was a thrill, stretching across Crowley’s back like wings.

The two stepped outside, back into the unfriendly Wessex damp. Ahead there came the clang of metal. Swords clashing. Humans shouting.

Aziraphale startled. “We’re a far cry from the center of the encampment. Will your people be confused? About where I came from?”

The metal crashing continued. “They don’t bite. Getting a bit of practice in. Gotta keep sharp.”

Arriving at the main camp, where Crowley knew Aziraphale had expected brigand’s drilling for attack, instead they found the troupe practicing with blunted swords and pikes. Reciting lines.

By a wagon, another group performed a skit with terracotta puppets.

“Crowley, are they bards?”

“Mm-yeah?”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Truthfully?”

“Surprised you didn’t recognize any of them. Played for your man, believe it or not.”

The angel’s shock was palpable.

“Several times. Yeah, they go to your merchants, too. Flour, grain. No one suspects a thing.” Crowley flashed a wicked grin. “And they do a great job playing at ruffians.”

“Do you mind if I…?”

“Yeah, go ahead. Enjoy.”

It didn’t take long for Crowley’s influence on the group to show through in the storytelling. Though not any evil influence. The puppeteers drew the small audience of toddlers and their watchers into the tale of another world called _Annwn_. A paradise of eternal youth. There was no disease, and food was plenty.

There was a king in this underworld, a hunter of souls and controller of demons.

Aziraphale side-eyed Crowley. “Sounds like you’ve been mixing your metaphors a bit.”

They were about to make excuses. Stumble over words that weren’t entirely false but definitely not the truth. Then they remembered who they were talking to and gave in. “They deserve to think of a place better than all this. Gives them hope. Makes them want better. Makes them, you know, restless. Rise up.”

Aziraphale frowned. “I don’t think they could have stayed there. In Eden.”

“No. I don’t think so either.”

“It would have been nice though, wouldn’t it?”

Crowley dragged their yellow-pit eyes up the angel’s form while he wasn’t looking. “Company sure would have been.”

Aziraphale tittered. “Kept a closer eye on each other, that’s for sure.”

“Much closer,” Crowley breathed, enthralled. “Absolutely.”

When they reached the angel’s lips--red from the chilly afternoon, glistening with mead--the demon’s heart skipped. Aziraphale seemed about to lean in.

Crowley froze. They couldn’t be the one to close the distance. They _couldn’t_. They’d made a mistake before. What if they were wrong? They couldn’t hurt Aziraphale. They couldn’t do it again.

They were the one to turn away.

Aziraphale hummed. “You, uh… Mead? You said? We should… wash the taste of that dreadful barley away.”

Crowley could think of better ways to wash away the taste of one bad beer, been doing it for millennia, but Aziraphale had a refined palette--which was to say, having one at all was a step above the serpent, but he was lightyears beyond that.

“I’ll grab a horn for us. You enjoy the show.” Crowley ambled toward the newest minstrel with his harp manning the mead barrels.

The older boy peered up at the demon, a smug look crossing him. “You’ve a guest, I see, Sir Crowley?”

“No one for you to worry about, lad. Oi,” Crowley said as they nudged his foot, “pour one for me, eh?”

The boy lovingly set aside his harp. He prepared a frothing mead-horn for Crowley with practiced theatricality.

“Good lad. And keep your elbows up more,” they said, nodding to the harp, “so they’re not tight to your body. You’ll pluck into your palm easier.”

The minstrel returned eagerly to his practice while Crowley returned to their angel. They heart tumbled to their black linen sleeves to see him crouched down, listening to several of the camp’s young children.

_How long until we’re together another afternoon?_

From the looks of it, the kids were trying to sell Aziraphale a magic bundle of sticks, tied with vines and false runes carved upon them.

“Oh my! They keep away the fearsome Black Knight?” Aziraphale asked the younger children, “So you know the fiend personally, do you?”

Tiny faces turned instantly to Crowley. They were up to no good and knew it, judging by the quick widening of eyes and dropped jaws. A solid leer from the demon sent them running off.

“Shouldn’t entertain them like that, Aziraphale. Saw them angling to sneak the ring off your finger.”

“I should like to see them try.” The angel followed the movements of the young ones, then scanned the clearing for the others. The minstrel by the mead barrels. The young stage hands near the men and women practicing their lines and combat. The year’s few babies with their mothers as they tended the gardens and handspun flax. “Do they want for much here, these children?”

There was a chasm across Aziraphale’s tone that Crowley recognized. That old familiar doubt.

Crowley gestured for Aziraphale to walk back toward their tent. They followed alongside at the angel’s left, keeping a comfortable pace. “It’s hard all around,” they answered, “but it’s better than some places have it. I… The _humans_ do what they can. For food, for drink, until doom will they endure.”

“Seems an awful lot of demonic interference. I’m surprised my side didn’t send me here sooner.”

“Yeah, they would, wouldn’t they.” They snarled, “Can’t have children eating enough, enjoying themselves.”

“Crowley…”

“Sorry. Sorry. ‘No business’. Here. Mead.”

They handed over the horn.

Aziraphale furrowed his brow but drew the frothing liquid to his lips. The taste was enough to break his concern. “Ohh,” he said with a soft moan. “Heavenly. Erm, I mean-”

Crowley chuckled. They led the angel past their pavilion, toward the forest behind.

Aziraphale sipped again from the horn. “Do you remember the Greeks? They called mead _ambrosia_.”

“_Nectar_,” Crowley added, amused.

“Thought it was the _drink of the gods_. Sent from the Heavens,” Aziraphale said, pointing one delightful finger upward, “as dewdrops collected by the bees.”

“I mean, we’re not gods but…” Crowley shrugged one elegant shoulder.

At their side, Aziraphale sighed into their mead. “There are those who consider honey an aphrodisiac…”

For the first time in a long time, Crowley wished they had their dark glasses at hand. “Yeah. Well. I’ve had this before. No surprises ahead.”

“Oh, I wasn’t suggesting-”

“And honestly, angel, is there a food or drink on this planet that _some_ one _some_where hasn’t decided leads to sssins of the flesh? You’d think they’d learn to take responsibility for their actions at some point. Nnnhh.” Crowley winced, their words too close to home.

They took another long gulp of the sweet mead.

“So…” Crowley swallowed against the truths in their throat, pushing them down with a sly smirk. “Giving Caligula’s nephew a love of music. How’d that work out for you?”

Aziraphale pressed thin his honey-kissed lips. “I’d say about as well as that bit you pulled with the Duke of Cornwall’s wife. Oh yes. I heard all about that.”

“Ugh. Tintagel.” Crowley would never admit such things to their friend but they still felt badly about that one. “S’not my fault Uther was a horny bastard. You know he threatened my life?”

“Gosh. You must have been quaking.”

Crowley glared. “Hell would have had my head otherwise.”

“There it is.”

“They loved Uther! The Dark Council, _all_ the Lords and Dukes. Did a lot of bad deeds, that one. Then he had to go and assault Igraine and suddenly, crash! Pow! Have yourselves a once and future king! And look where that bear’s gotten us?”

“Arthur is doing quite well. Ridding the land of monsters, uniting the different factions. They’ve established a land of the just.”

“Yeah, for now,” Crowley said, wretched. It was just like Rome and Caligula all over. Only Arthur wasn’t a debaucherous villain, just a bit of a self-important privileged wanker.

Aziraphale must have caught the implications enough. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… He’s only human. How long can this reign last really?”

“You know something.”

“Nn-ahh, I mean… I-I’ve got sssuspicions.” _Shouldn’t be talking about this. Really, I shouldn’t. But it’s you._ Crowley’s voice slid low. “I’m meant to be at a place called Camlann in a few weeks. Big battle s’posed to go down. Then, I can, you know, turn in my final report. Head back home.”

“Home… You’re…” Aziraphale studied Crowley’s plaintive look. “You’re not talking about Downstairs. Do you mean to tell me you have a home here? On Earth?”

“Yeah?”

“Somewhere you go back to? Repeatedly?”

“Don’t you?”

“Oh, I…” The angel smiled, wistful. “I don’t think my side would approve. Setting down roots. Owning… material objects.”

“You don’t own anything?”

“That would be greedy. _Heaven_ provides all that I need.” Despite his words, Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably.

“Yeah but having a place to rest,” Crowley pushed, “away from all the… stuffed shirt bureaucracy. What about those scrolls you had?”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“The room you had at that inn was stuffed full of them.”

A nervous giggle bubbled up. “I-I don’t-”

“Practically couldn’t look at a flat surface without seeing four or five.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale forced his laugh then, his free hand fidgeting with the ties of his tunic. “Oh, those scrolls.”

“_Those scrolls._ You just get rid of them when you left Rome?” The demon tutted and leveled their golden gaze. “They burned when Nero fiddled, didn’t they?”

Aziraphale tightened his eyes. “I may… have… kept a few.”

They beamed. “You don’t say.”

“They’re important, Crowley! What was I supposed to do, leave them and hope someone else would see their historic value? Really!”

In watching the angel unravel his deceptions and dive into his justification, Crowley noted in the dim afternoon light how pale he seemed. In subtle ways, His body was slimmer than the last time they’d happened upon him. _He’s not eating much,_ Crowley realized, _but he’s grown used to it. He needs it. Like me and sleep. Do you sleep yet, Aziraphale?_

Crowley drew their lower lip beneath their teeth, searching for the right words. “How you been holding up? With the, you know…”

They pointed to the gray sky above.

Aziraphale glanced and understood. He sighed, exhaustion finally showing through. They’d reached the pond Crowley liked to swim in when they couldn’t sleep. Several large rocks lined the edges and the angel chose one big enough for two to sit down.

Crowley didn’t have to be asked to join him.

“It’s certainly colder here, isn’t it?” Aziraphale said, “You still enjoying that?”

The demon shrugged. “Warming up’s always nice. Nicer when there’s someone to warm up with.”

_Would you ever burrow under sheepskins and blankets with me, I wonder? If this world were different, would you hold me through the snowstorms, let me tell you stories until you could keep your eyes open no more?_

Crowley dragged their telltale eyes away from making poems of Aziraphale’s arms. “It’s hard on people but that’s… er… well, that’s part of what’s making it easy to do my job, frankly. Always easier to encourage shaking things up a bit when they’re hungry.”

“You mean dying.”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed, a little quieter than before.

There has been a dust fog over the planet for a year. Not that the rest of the world knew it but a volcano in Iceland took the blame. Sulfur and bismuth and ash spewed into the sky. That pale gray veil turned the sun to moon. The cold countries grew ever colder but Crowley had mead. And they had needed it. A lot of it. They’d been quite proud of themself: at the taste, they’d only fallen into breath-stealing tear-streaked panic for a few weeks, fearing Hell was literally coming to earth and they’d missed a memo.

It was an absolute garbage time to be alive. One of the worst. For humans _and_ for Crowley and Aziraphale. Neither would admit it, but they were both in a bad mood about the whole thing. The sun had turned blue in color, rain fell red, the snow yellowed. No one had no shadows even at midday and the wine never tasted good. Famine had giddily spread his touch far and wide, running around Ireland and Scandinavia, Mesopotamia and China, summering in the Mediterranean.

But that reminded Crowley...

“Look, I don’t like to be the bearer of bad news--don’t give me that look--anyway, word Downstairs is that… They’re saying _Pestilence_ is gearing up for a big run.” Even saying the Horseperson’s name aloud sent a chill down the demon’s spine.

“They are?”

“You don’t want to get caught up in whatever they’re doing. Bound to be my crowd on their tail, sniping souls for the Unholy One.” Crowley dug their fingers into their rusted hair. “Didn’t hear it from me, okay? Jussst…”

They snatched up Aziraphale’s warm hand, careful of the mead horn in the other, and hesitated.

_It’s not the same, here, is it? If I kiss you_ here _, you won’t see it as a devotion. Please don’t think of when I was a wine-drunk fool, alone in a cruel city and looking for softness. I’d dashed against so many sharp rocks, I didn’t know I’d bleed out my love on your shores._

_Let me venture this instead._

Crowley bent to Aziraphale’s hand and settled a kiss, quick and branding, across his knuckles. The demon pressed their forehead there briefly, taking back the heat of it so no one would know. “Stay out of Egypt for a few decades, yeah?”

The astonished look on the angel’s face fell away. “Again?”

Crowley took the mead for another sip. “Might want to go on holiday from the whole Empire, if you can.”

The angel sighed as only those who had seen every era of humanity dragged about by the Horsepersons could sigh: fuming with the helplessness of it all but resigned to their role in the so-called Great Plan. “Where’s War been at?”

“She’s riding with the Huns, it seems. And Death is… Everywhere.”

“It feels like the end times,” Aziraphale said with a shudder.

“Can’t be as bad as all that…” The sentiment was half-hearted, but they were trying. For their angel’s safety, they’d try a lot of things.

And the end _was_ coming. The forces of Hell were eager for that. The Final Judgement. Doomsday. Aziraphale might not believe it, might assume the Big One was truly at hand any decade now. But when it came time, Crowley knew they would tell him. Even if Aziraphale doubted. Even if Crowley was sure Aziraphale wouldn’t tell a demon like them if the tables were turned.

The Antichrist would be the key. And when Crowley heard about their Dark Lord’s child, they’d need to have a plan. A way out. For the both of them.

The angel and the demon sat by the pond for a long time. Not talking much. Passing the horn between them, enjoying the damselflies skimming the surface of the water, the call of crows and sparrows. Breathing in each other’s presence.

But all good things come to an end.

“It’s been lovely catching up,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley heard the farewell in his voice. “So soon?” The sun--what little counted as the sun those days--was setting. “I have more mead, if you like. Back at camp.”

They watched the bob of Aziraphale’s nerve-choked throat. His eyes darted to the shaded edges of the lake. Only shadows there.

“It’s already later than I expected.” An apology, soft and lonely.

“Stay for dinner,” Crowley tried lightly. “Stay the night. You can take my tent. I’ll... sleep by the camp’s fire.”

_Won’t get too close,_ the demon thought, inching closer to the angel. _Won’t tempt you into anything else if you’ll just accept this small_ one _: let me see your eyes in the red morning light. I’ll fix you tea in those ridiculous cups of yours. I’ll clasp your cape to your shoulders for your journey._

_Stay..._

“No. Thank you. I’m expected back at the Table. Reporting in on that _dastardly_ Black Knight.” A glance skyward and Crowley knew what he was anxious to avoid. Nothing about the downturn of Aziraphale’s head or the held back hands said he wanted to go. Leaving was hard on him, too, then.

It was impossible not to be disappointed, but the demon supposed it was easy not to show it. Crowley could pen a manuscript devoted to the study of tucking away their emotions, particularly ones of the heart, particularly from the object of said heart. But then, they didn’t see the brushstrokes they carried, minium, chalk, and woad.

Someone had gone and burnished Crowley in gold.

That’s the problem with writing of love: each author thinks they work alone. For around the angel, Crowley’s blackscript secrets jumped from their vellum cage, illuminated by Aziraphale’s fluttering hands.

They pushed away that too-bright light from their amber eyes, crawling back to friendly banter, somewhere safer because Aziraphale needed it. “Oh? Going to tell the men you fed me porridge and I poured you beer that tasted awful so we went for the mead instead?”

“And took a lovely walk. However did I escape with my life!” His eyes brightened on Crowley. “Turns out they were quite a wily old serpent after all.”

The angel worries his hands together, like he wants to reach out.

_You can touch me. I won’t burn you. I should cut a lock from my hair as a token, a promise. We will meet again. Would you be able to keep such a thing or would you have to bury me in a scooped out bit of earth, much as I have entombed these words in my empty stomach? There’s no room for anything else but you down there._

Neither touched the other, though. They simply looked. Gazed, blue into gold. So much between them, lingering, drinking in the sight through the light buzz of the mead. Memorizing the moment.

They might not get another.

Aziraphale stood, eyes and smile tight. “Be well, dear.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Crowley watched him go, wondering why he didn’t just miracle himself to manifest where he needed. _Does he want me to watch him go? Is he thinking about staying?_

_Does he know what those tights do to his calves?_

Before Crowley could think about what those calves were doing to their insides, Aziraphale turned back. He took several steps toward the demon and spoke.

“I’m... I’m meant to be in Camlann, too.”

Crowley blinked. They stepped closer. What the angel was saying, it was almost an invitation. A promise. The future.

“May we meet again, Black Knight.” Aziraphale bowed with a flourish.

Crowley smirked and closed the distance to clasp the angel’s outstretched hand. They pressed another kiss there, to his right hand, to his golden signet ring.

_Now and for always, I am yours._

Aziraphale’s breath caught in a gasp.

Crowley glanced up but barely lifted their lips, smiling as they ducked their head. They stood, letting the angel go. Aziraphale was staring, eyes half-lidded with something worryingly tender.

Crowley gulped.

“Nn-uh-well… Safe travels and all that. See you in Camlann, yeah? Sir Aziraphale.” Crowley turned on the ball of their foot and gave a flick of their wrist for a wave. “_Ta-ra!_”

They sauntered off, heat rising straight to their cheeks and creeping to their ears. It was everything they could do not to grin like the lovestruck pup they were.

_What the fuck is wrong with me…_

A _shing_ sounded beneath the cedar trees as Aziraphale popped off to wherever his camp was made.

In his tent, Crowley collapsed again onto their bench but they didn’t sleep. No. It was time to make a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was incredibly delayed by my not finding my way into the story. I’m not sure I ever did, but I do hope it was worth the wait. I’d love to know your thoughts.
> 
> As usual, lots of research for little bits here and there. Since this was a half-legend half-historical time, I took some liberties. The most important info for you: The Battle of Camlann is where legend says that Arthur and his nephew Mordred killed each other in battle.
> 
> Crowley also quotes--a few hundred years early--the bard Taliesin’s Song of Mead at one point here as well.


End file.
